


Keep Yourself Alive

by ronniesshoes



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronniesshoes/pseuds/ronniesshoes
Summary: Trying to make it as a glam band is a full-time job, but sometimes, life gets in the way





	1. Chapter 1

It’s ten past nine, Tuesday evening, and despite the meeting having begun not twenty minutes ago, the table is a right mess already; littered with old magazines and library books he doubts will be returned anytime soon, Freddie’s sketches and scribbles, Roger’s Macbook, and a knocked over jar of glitter that was already there when Brian got home. He supposes Roger and John might have something to do with it, because there’s a fair amount of glitter in the bassist’s hair, and a speck just beneath Roger’s left eye.

“Okay, so, stagewear,” Freddie says, holding up his index finger as if about to start counting, and Brian, having been designated as scribe, starts scribbling, “and, no matter if we get signed or not, ideas on how to promote the next album. Personally I think we might as well go full glam, because as of now it seems like we are unsure of what’s going on ourselves. Anything else?”

John’s eyes drift towards the ceiling, and Roger, brow furrowed, is drumming a pen against his thigh. Brian reaches out to stop him.

“Well?”

“The website is still not up and running,” Roger begins slowly, having now begun to draw small triangles on the thigh of his jeans, “and we should probably talk about who’s in charge of social media as well, because as of now, the few people who actually write to us may never get back a reply.”

Freddie nods. “Right, yes, the banner is almost done, and you’re right about social media. Brian, what about your friend, what’s his name?”

“Daniel. He promised to get back to me before next week,” he says, making a mental note to do a follow up tomorrow.

“Good. Let’s start with stagewear, shall we?”

Brian drops his head in hand, attempting to hide his smile. Dressing his band for concerts and photo shoots is no doubt one of Freddie’s favourite pastimes, right up with researching Oscar Wilde and trying to persuade them to get another cat.

“I like these,” John says, holding up two of Freddie’s sketches of different batwing costumes which he has been examining, “on you two, at least. I’m thinking it would look really good on stage.”

“I looked at some of Zandra Rhodes’ designs,” Freddie says, reaching for one of the books, “obviously she does a lot with colour, but look at this wedding dress, for example. Imagine very large sleeves with pleats like that, how great a visual effect we could achieve. I’m sure I could ask Mary to make something like that.”

“I think it’s great, it goes well with the whole black and white theme we’ve got going,” Roger says.

“So we’re keeping that?”

“Didn’t they wear lots of colours back then?” Brian wonders aloud, trying to recall the pictures Roger and Freddie have shown him on various occations.

“They did, but to be perfectly honest, things like coloured satin and sequins and the like looks rather cheap to me,” Freddie says with distaste.

“Basically we’re taking the best of glam and ignoring the things we don’t like,” Roger says, tipping his chair back.

“Yes, but what I don’t understand is why we haven’t had a glam revival yet,” Freddie says, sitting up straighter, “today’s rock scene is so … insipid; really, it’s the perfect time to spice it up a bit of flamboyance, to provoke and to provide a bit of fun in a time where music has sounded pretty much the same for the past three decades. And, I mean, I understand the importance of the movement back in the 70s, but most of the performers who dressed up and did the whole androgynous thing were straight men, and now we have the opportunity to create a space where actual queer artists can express themselves. I mean, how often do you hear someone like Jobriath mentioned?”

Despite the rhetorical question, Roger shrugs, expression bemused. John purses his lips.

“So obviously we’ll have to find a new drummer,” Brian says, lazily adding to his stick figure portrait of only drummer present, already wearing a hat atop significantly longer locks and dressed in a tutu.

Roger opens his mouth to retort, but Freddie is quicker. “Don’t worry, dear, a dash of glitter and a haircut like Brian Connolly, and no one will notice!”

That comment makes John snorts into the crook of his elbow, and Roger looks like he’s not sure whether to feel indignant or to laugh.

“The token straight,” Brian continues with a sigh, merely laughing when Roger socks him in the arm. Ziggy, disturbed by the commotion, hops down from the armchair he’s been sleeping in for the past hours, and starts rubbing his head against Freddie’s leg until the singer starts petting him.

“We can’t really go fully glam with short hair, though,” John points out, and they all fall silent, exchanging tentative glances.

“I suppose it’s not uncommon to see guys with long hair anymore,” Roger says after a while, “I do have a some trouble imagining it, though.”

He’s not the only one; every long haired guy Brian can recall seeing has been a whole other type, one he doubts any of them fits, especially not if they are going to adopt the glam style, which in and of itself is way out of Brian’s comfort zone. It may be less of a trouble for Freddie, who already owns a fair few pieces from that era, and generally dresses more or less glam already, if perhaps a bit more subtly, and Roger, who gladly lets Freddie dress him, and whose style spans from pretentious art kid to burnt out rock n’ roll star to a walking Adidas ad, and that despite not having engaged in any kind of sports since leaving Cornwall as far as Brian is aware.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Freddie says, “we should give it a go.”

“As long as I’m allowed to keep my hair as it is,” Brian says, suppressing a grimace at the thought of himself with long hair.

“What, no! If we’re all growing our hair out, you’ll have to do it as well,” Roger protests.

“Not with curly hair,“ he says, going for patience but finding it hard to, "I’ll end up with an afro, and I doubt that’s the look we’re trying to achieve.”

“It looked fine on Bolan!”

“Don’t know who he is, and it doesn’t matter anyway, I won’t do it,” he says, ignoring Roger’s outraged expression. He reaches for his Mac, punches the keyboard buttons, and shoves the screen into Brian’s face, showing a pretty faced guitarist who indeed works both long and curly hair.

“See?” Roger urges, a slightly manic expression on his face, “and Jimmy Page! You practically drool every time you see a picture of him, how can you doubt that curls and long hair don’t go together?”

“I would’ve phrased it differently, but I have to agree with Roger, dear, almost everyone wore their hair long in the 70s, and no doubt it will look good on you, too.”

“John and Freddie have curly hair as well, you know,” Roger offers, like he’s being helpful.

“Not the same,” he says, but when even John’s usually neutral expression shifts just slightly enough to convey his opinion on the matter, Brian knows he’s lost. “All right, fine. I’ll complain, though, and if it looks stupid, I’ll cut it short again.”

He pointedly ignores the way Roger’s face fills with glee and Freddie looks pleased, opting instead to exchange glances with John, who merely lifts one eyebrow a fraction, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Right,” he says, looking down at his notepad, “promotion?”

“Yes, right,” Freddie says, pausing for a second as if about to reveal some no doubt grand, but probably a bit mad, idea, a slightly worrying glint in his eyes, “I’m thinking a nude photo shoot for—”

“You’re thinking a what?” Brian interrupts, certain he’s heard wrong. Roger also looks uncertain, John plain uncomfortable.

“A nude photo shoot, of course,” Freddie repeats, like it’s no big deal.

Brian hides his face in his hands, wondering not for the first time how he’s survived living with these maniacs for this long.

“I think Stones did that for Sticky Fingers though,” Roger says, and Brian looks up to see him already tapping on his keyboard.

“What?” Freddie exclaims, looking mildly outraged, “let me see.”

“No, sorry, it’s only Mick,” he replies, handing his laptop to Freddie, “I remembered it as all of them.”

“Well, I’m thinking more along the lines of Performance, now you mention him. Only less hippie and more stylish, you know.”

“We still haven’t seen it, Fred,” Brian says, because it’s not the first time Freddie has referred to a weird art film, and especially Performance he has talked about a lot for a movie he claims to hate.

“You don’t have to,” Freddie says dismissively, “you wouldn’t like it anyway, but here, look.” He turns the laptop so they can all see the picture of Mick Jagger, seemingly naked, reclining on a large bed. A moment later, Roger gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

“I want us all in the nude, sprawled on a large bed with expensive sheets and a bottle of champagne,” Freddie continues, raising his voice enough for Roger to hear.

“So just an ordinary day, then?” Roger asks as he return with more beers, making John laugh and Freddie hide his teeth.

“And why exactly is it that we have to be naked for this to be glam?” he asks after a moment. John, newly-brought beer can to his lips, shoots him a glance, and Brian thinks he looks relieved.

“It’s provocative, and that’s all I’m about, dear, you know that. God knows that it shouldn’t be, but here we are. Obviously you don’t have to be naked, it just has to look like you are.”

"Fred, I don't—”

“Oh, I know, Fleetwood Mac definitely had a picture taken where they were all in bed,” Roger interrupts.

“Roger,” Freddie says, tone saccharine, but when the drummer turns to look at him, he chucks a piece of crumbled up paper at him, “shut up.”

“But we’re trying to sell music, Fred, not ourselves,” Brian tries to reason, “I know you want us to be outrageous, but to be honest I can’t really see the point.”

“Of course we’re trying to sell ourselves,” Roger says, looking up from where he’s been inspecting the tattoo on his right wrist, “that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I mean, no one’s asking you to get your cock out on stage, but I agree with Freddie that it’s possible to do this with taste. Personally I think it’s a good idea.”

“You just want an excuse to show off,” Brian grumbles, annoyed that the two of them always gang up on him, “like we don’t see more than enough of you already.”

“Brian,” Freddie warns.

“I don’t— what are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he says, working hard to keep his voice level, “if you really want to, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well,” Roger says after a beat, looking uncertain, “what do you think, John?”

“The four of us sprawled naked on a big bed might be a bit much,” he allows, “but I don’t see anything wrong with having pictures taken from the waist and up, for example. It comes down to the photographer as well. Did you have anyone in mind, Fred?”

“I thought maybe Tim, he’s been doing lots of weird art films lately, I’m sure he would be happy to do it if he’s not busy.”

Brian nods along with the others and quickly scans the bullets on his pad. “Should we keep our music on Soundcloud or extend it to Youtube as well? We all know Roger’s opinion on the matter, but what do you two say?

“It might be easier to share new songs on Facebook,” John says, “it looks neater with actual videos, but unless we keep it up to date and reply when people comment it just looks unprofessional and has the potential to do more harm than good.”

“John is right, and Roger mentioned it earlier as well, we need become better at checking up on social media,” Freddie agrees.

Brian caps and uncaps his pen. “Any volunteers?”

“As long as you check up on it once in awhile as well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind too much,” Roger offers.

“Great,” Freddie says, “now, does everyone have an outfit for the concert at King’s College?”

“I don’t,” John says. Brian dips a finger in some of the glitter still on the table and carefully inspects it.

“Come down to the stall Friday, we’ll find you something,” Freddie promises. “Roger, I’ve seen yours already, Brian? Not gonna show up in one of those awful shirts, are you? I age ten years every time you wear one in public.”

Brian rolls his eyes, about to say a thing or two about some of the singer’s more outlandish clothes, but he holds his tongue. “No, Fred.”

He looks at his notepad again. “So I’ll call Daniel, Freddie will talk to Tim, Roger is responsible for social media, and John … please turn it down a notch with Bonnie Tyler while you shower. It’s a bit disconcerting.”

“I’ll try to keep it down,” John offers, a smile tugging on his lips when Roger lets out a snort of laughter.

“If that’s all, I’m off to bed,” Freddie says, pushes his chair back, and stands. He pauses for a moment, looks at the table, and adds, “I hope this mess is gone tomorrow”, before he disappears into their bedroom, Ziggy close on his heels.  
  


♛ ♛ ♛   
  


It’s completely dark outside when he stumbles out of bed some hours later, half asleep still, but he barely registers it, his only thought revolving around the pressure on his bladder. It takes lots of fumbling before he finds the light switch, and when he does, the sudden light is too bright, and he has to screw his eyes shut again. He somehow succeeds in shoving down his pyjama bottoms and pushing up the toilet seat without ever opening his eyes, but he doesn’t trust himself enough to have a go at it and end up missing the bowl, and so he tentatively opens one eye, inwardly cursing himself for drinking those extra beers.

It is as he’s making his way back that he notices faint noises coming from the living room, and despite his desire to get back to bed as quickly as possible, he stops to push open the door to blearily peek in. Roger is there—or at least his blond head of messy hair is—huddled up in a corner of the couch watching A Clockwork Orange for the umpteenth time. Brian steps into the room, and Roger turns, startled by the creak of the floorboards, before his face quickly morphs into a smile.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks, and Brian waves a hand towards the bathroom with a grunt, too tired to form a proper sentence. Roger seems to understand, but there’s an amused smile playing on his lips. He decides to ignore it, and instead sinks onto the couch, his whole body melting into the soft, worn cushions.

He thinks about staying here for a while, because the couch really is soft, and conveniently enough he’s already sitting on it, whereas his bed is in another room, and now his eyes are falling shut anyway. If only he had something to support his head on, because the back rest really is too low and, weird, it never struck him how bony it feels, not at all like the rest of it, and …

“Wanna lie down?”  
  
At the sound of Roger’s voice he looks up, and, wow, he has got a lot of hair. Finally registering the question, he lifts his head from where it appears to have settled on Roger’s shoulder, and nods, once, before shifting back to lie down with his head in the drummer’s lap.  
  
Only for a moment, though, then he is going back to bed.  
  
Said moment passes, and then Roger’s hand comes down to thread through his hair, and no, he is definitely okay with staying here. For a while he tries to focus on the movie, but his eyes are heavy and stinging and keep falling shut. The scenes from the movie are in his head, created by memory and sounds, and even though Roger’s thigh could’ve been softer, there are certainly less comfortable places to rest. If only it wasn’t so cold, he thinks, and he really does want to open his eyes and go back to bed, it’s just so, so far away.  
  
Roger shifts underneath him then and removes his hand, and Brian tries to communicate his displeasure with a small noise in the back of his throat. A moment later, something warm and soft is draped over his body, and Roger’s hand returns, lightly massaging his scalp with calloused fingertips.  
  
A minute or less, for sure, later, and Roger’s voice, soft and gentle albeit somewhat distant, sounds, and then he’s manipulated into first sitting up and then standing, and with the blanket around his shoulders he is dimly aware of the fact that he is being lead into his room, too dazed to even realise he is walking, before he falls into bed with a warm sort of gratefulness.  
  


♛ ♛ ♛   
  


The next morning, early but not too early in case he’s sleeping in, he calls Daniel. Brian doesn’t actually know the guy, except that he attends the same course as Brian, and that he has a knack for setting up websites. He has been very sweet and helpful about it all, but they haven’t even discussed a price yet, and the whole thing makes Brian stressed and unsure and a bit nauseous. When he gets the answering machine, it’s with equal measures of relief and exasperation that he throws his phone on his bed and gathers his books to finish his assigned readings. The kitchen is blissfully quiet, Freddie having left half an hour ago and John and Roger most certainly not up yet. It’s with some envy that he thinks of this, because his body is stiff and heavy from lack of sleep, but before readings and phone calls and his afternoon lecture are well over, he can’t justify going back to bed.

  
Two hours later and halfway done, he is just contemplating whether to take a break when the door at the far end of the living room opens and the rhythm section appears, both bleary-eyed in bare legs and jumpers and with their hair mussed from sleep, John wearing two different socks as usual and Roger only wearing one.  
  
“Good morning,” Roger says around a yawn, even though it’s closer to noon. Still, they’re up unusually early considering.  
  
“Morning,” he replies, “you’re up early.”  
  
“The bloody neighbours started having sex again,” Roger complains, flicking on the kettle and reaching for two cups.  
  
“They’re pensioners,” John explains, “suppose they don’t hear very well.”  
  
“They could at least close the window. It’s november, bloody freezing anyway,” Roger says, dumping tea bags into the cups, “can barely look them in the eye when I meet them. You want tea as well?”  
  
“Please,” he says, handing over his empty mug before returning to his work.   
  
“Do you actually colour code your stuff?” Roger asks a while later, so close to his ear it makes him jump. “It’s what I imagine Freddie does because he thinks it looks pretty.”  
  
“He does,” John confirms.  
  
“I don’t do it because it looks pretty, I do it because it helps me stay organized. You should try it sometime,” he says pointedly.  
  
“What, being organized?” Roger yawns, “nah, never works. I find comfort in chaos.”  
  
“Unless you’re late and can’t find your earphones,” John says, filling up a bowl with granola until it’s almost overflowing.   
  
“Or your phone,” Brian adds.  
  
“Okay, but everyone loses their phone once in awhile, that doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly where every other thing in my room is.”  
  
“Under your bed,” John says.  
  
“Exactly,” Roger says, pointing his spoon at John like he’s the one who really gets it. Which he probably is, because he’s not much better.  
  
He tries to return to his readings once again, but the two of them together make for a pretty big distraction, even when he does his best to stay out of the conversation. He picks up the tea Roger made him and reads the same line over and over again until his head is swimming and he starts thinking about everything on his to-do list.  
  
“Are you up for practise later?” John asks around a spoonful of granola, pulling him from his thoughts.  
  
“Sure,” he says, and dies a little inside.  
  
It’s when they’ve finally buggered off that he realises just how tense he’s feeling. He rolls his neck and shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension, but it only serves to make him even more aware of the stiffness.  
  
He idly wonders if a good, long wank is what he needs, but quickly decides that hoping to be left alone long enough is unrealistic. He doesn’t fancy doing it in the shower, his body not responding to being naked the same way it does when he’s in bed, but unless Roger has a lecture, even a few hours alone very unlikely to happen. John and Freddie both work Wednesdays, so it’s practically the only day of the week where there’s a slight chance he can get some time for himself, but most often the drummer is there to keep him company. And it’s not as if he doesn’t like to spend time with him, but he really is not at all like Roger who thrives off company, and sometimes all that socialising is a bit much.  
  
Sighing, he packs up his stuff, saves his notes for the thirteenth time, and closes his laptop. He drains the rest of tea, long gone cold now, and allows himself a minute to just sit. He tries one of Freddie’s meditation techniques, but immediately feels stupid and stops. It would just be his luck for John or Roger to walk in on him.  
  
As it happens, Roger does have a lecture, and appears again half an hour later, smartly dressed which means the girl he fancies is going to be there, grabs a bottle of juice from the fridge, and hangs around for a good five minutes to chat.  
“Didn’t you have a lecture?” he hints when it becomes clear that Roger has lost all track of time during his not particularly asked for review on the new Roger Waters album.   
  
Roger stops mid-sentence, lets out a laugh, and puts on his shoes, waving at him before disappearing outside. Appreciating the near-silence immensely, Brian goes back to brainstorming his next paper.  
  
John appears again a while after to make another cup of tea, but he doesn’t strike up conversation, and for the next half an hour, Brian manages to fill three pages in his notebook.  
  
Satisfied with his work, he puts it away and mentally goes through the rest of his tasks. There’s that phone call again, which he supposes he can’t really put off any longer, and afterwards there’s lunch, and then he thinks he should be able to squeeze in a wank before he leaves for uni.   
  
“Right, I’m off,” John announces, patting his coat pockets, “see you later.”  
“See you. Have a nice shift!”  
  
John thanks him and leaves, and Brian is left alone.  
  
No point in putting it off any longer.  
  
He walks back to his room to get his phone and lies back on his bed, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Daniel’s number.  
  
While waiting for him to pick up, Brian eyes wander to the large poster of a deliciously sweaty Jimmy Page on the opposite wall. He thumbs at the hem of his trousers, his own cold fingers making him shiver when he brushes against the bare skin of his stomach.  
  
“Hello?” Daniel says, and Brian almost drops his phone, guiltily snatching his hand away.  
  
“Hi, uhm, hi,” he says, immediately feeling stupid, “sorry to bother you, but you never called me back, and—”  
  
“Right, yes, sorry about that. It’s just about done, I thought we could look over it after the lecture today if you’re not busy?”  
  
“No, that would be great, thank you.”  
  
“Alright, Brian, see you in a couple of hours.”  
  
“Yeah, alright. Bye!”   
  
Embarrassed by his lack of social skills, he finds that he’s not particularly horny anymore, and so deems it to be too much work. Glancing at his watch, he finds that he still has an hour to kill before leaving for class, and so he retreats to the studio and picks up his guitar, relaxing properly for the first time that day.  
  


♛ ♛ ♛ 

  
“Yes, mum— No, I told you today is not so good,” he says, phone pressed against his ear as he steps up the stairs from the Tube, “but I don’t work Saturday, how’s that?”

“The Parkers are visiting, dear, I told you so the last time we spoke,” mum says.

“Right, sorry—”

“Are you sure you can’t come by today? Surely the guys won’t be cross with you for skipping band practise this once, I imagine they have mums who miss them, too.”

“It’s not just band practise,” he says, weaving through the crowd and wishing he was home already, “and I can’t skip, mum, I already agreed— hold on.”

He passes a group of construction workers drilling, and returns to the phonecall.

“What about tomorrow? I finish work early.”

He will have to move a few things around, and stay up after practise to rewrite his lecture notes, but there’s that.

“Oh yes,” mum thrills, “how’s it going with, what’s his name?”

“Louis,” he says, narrowly avoiding bumping into an old woman, “and it’s going fine. But mum—”

“Louis, that’s right. You know, I talked to Deborah, and I told her you started tutoring recently, and she’s looking for someone to help her son with maths, and I told her that I’m sure you’d love to, but she’d have to call you herself to make an arrangement, so I gave her your number, and—”

“Mum,” he says, unable to keep the slightly whiny tone from his voice, “I appreciate you trying to set me up with more work, but I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, and I’m not sure I have the time.”

“Of course, dear, but you know it would really help them a lot, and it’s only twenty minutes by the Underground.”

“Right,” he says. Twenty minutes to the station, and then he has to walk for twenty more to get to their house if memory serves him well. “I’ll think about, but I really can’t promise anything.”

“Oh, she’ll be thrilled,” mum says.

“Bri?” someone calls, and he spins around to see John a few blocks down.

He waves at him and says to mum, “how was tomorrow for you? I can probably be there around five-ish, is that alright?”

“Five is perfect. Dad will be happy to see you, I know he has quite a lot to talk to you about. In fact—”

“No, Mum, sorry, but John’s here, I really have to go now. Please tell dad I said hi, and then I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“See you tomorrow. Tell John hello from me!”

“I will,” he says, just as John catches up with him, “bye, mum!”

“Wanted you to skip practise?” John guesses as Brian lets out a sigh.

“Like always,” he says, smiling in spite of himself. “How was work?”

“It was all right,” John says mildly, “did you talk to that Daniel?”

“Yes, he showed me how to set it up and everything, it looks really good,” he says, following John up the stairs to the flat.

“Seems like everything’s coming together then,” John replies, opening the door to the flat and the music coming from inside.

It’s Roger singing and playing  _Don’t Play Your Rock and Roll_ , which Brian has only ever heard him sing in the shower, and that only once or twice. “It’s not half bad,” he says genuinely, toeing off his shoes.

“What’s more baffling,” John says, not sounding baffled at all, “is how the two of them manage to play all three instruments at once.”

Brian is surprised to discover he is right - it’s a slightly stripped down version of the original, but never mind that, he already has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that they indeed are playing both drums, guitar, and bass. “How are they doing that?”

John shrugs and pushes his boots to the side with his foot. He’s wearing a sock patterned with pink octopuses, Brian notices. The other has The Great Wave off Kanagawa on it.

He follows John into the living room just as the door to the studio opens and Roger comes bouncing out, waving the drumsticks still in his hands. “Oi, there you are! Thought I heard you!”

“How did you—” he begins, but then Freddie and Tim both appear, Tim with John’s bass hanging from around his neck, and the pieces fall into place.

“Tim! How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Just stopped by to pick up the drinks dispenser.“ He looks at John, “I hope it’s okay I borrowed your bass.”

“Of course,” John says, dodging Roger’s attempt at putting his arms around him. “Roger, stop, you’re all sweaty.”

“Tim,” Roger says, dragging out his name, “this is our new and better bass player, Deacon John. John Deacon. Deaky.”

“I know, Roger,” Tim replies with great patience, “I’ve known him for two years.”

This apparently strikes Roger as terribly funny, because he starts laughing so hard that no sound comes out and John has to hold him upright, all the while trying his best not to smile.

“Who let him have sugar?” Brian asks, watching with slight worry as Roger gasps for breath.

“Tesco had a 3 for 2 offer on all sweets,” Freddie replies, and knowing Roger’s absolute weakness for Tesco offers and sugar in general, Brian thinks this explains it very well.

Roger, seemingly able to breathe again, brightly offers to get the last bag to share, but luckily, everyone reclines.

“I was actually about to leave,” Tim says, “did you want me to have a look at your ideas for a photo shoot before I go?”

“That would be great,” Brian says, “Fred?”

“Right, yes,” he begins, before launching into a detailed description of his idea, one that impossibly enough involves even more nudity than the night before. He opens the door to their bedroom, and they all follow him inside. “I’m thinking my bed,” he says, gesturing to his god-awful rococo bed, “it’s as big as Brian’s but much nicer.”

“I see,” Tim says, tone neutral.

Roger, now looking bored, and clearly on the way down from his sugar rush, looks like he is strongly considering lying down on either bed. Brian takes a step to the side, blocking his own.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time the next couple of weeks, but things slow down quite a bit for me after the 1st,” Tim says, “I’ll get back to you, yeah?”

Hugs and claps on the back are exchanged then, and soon after Tim leaves with the drinks dispenser in hand, and another promise to stay in touch. 

  
♛ ♛ ♛ 

  
Thursday morning sees Brian waking slowly, reluctantly, stirred from sleep by melancholic piano play he instantly recognises but doesn’t remember. Eyes still closed, his attention is stubbornly focused on the warmth of his covers, the way his sleep-heavy body merely exist in this warm cocoon that is his bed. When he finally opens one eye **—** the song he now recognises as Für Elise still playing **—** Freddie is sitting in his bed, looking sleepy rather than tired, and lets the music play instead of turning the alarm off right away.

“Good morning,” he says, and Brian’s murmured remark gets lost somewhere between his lips and pillow.  
  
“It’s nice, this, isn’t it?” Freddie continues, wriggling out of his pyjamas and turning down the heat before reaching up to crack the window open. Brian pulls his duvet tighter around him.  
  
“Better than his 5th, definitely,” he says, watching as Freddie rummages through his closet, “or that awful one, Rossini I think it was.”  
  
Freddie’s sudden interest in classical music and insistence to use a new piece every day for his alarm the past month has at times been trying, and while some of it is quite nice, Brian is unable to enjoy any kind of music before breakfast and two cups of coffee, and that’s no matter how great a masterpiece it supposedly is.  
  
Freddie laughs. “Never seen you up so fast.”  
  
He grimaces. “’m not a morning person.” Nine months of living together, and it still seems necessary to point out ever so often. He envies John and Roger at times, because their sleeping arrangement seems to work quite well.  
  
While Freddie is in the shower, Brian lies in bed, face buried in his pillow, torn between getting up and go about the day, and staying in his bed, the internal struggle an as important part of his day as his morning coffee and Freddie’s shower first thing in the morning. At last he gets up, albeit reluctantly, and if only to shut the window. Throwing on a warm sweater, he heads into the living room. John and Roger are there, still playing Mario Kart by the looks—and sounds—of it, just like they did when he went to bed last night. There’s a crumbled bag of Walker’s crisps under the sofa, and John is chewing on a strawberry lance, a concentrated look on his face.  
  
“Morning,” he greets. Receiving no answer, he tries instead, “have any of you fed the cat?”  
  
“I think Freddie did,” Roger replies distractedly, before letting out a shout of “bastard!“  
  
Brian checks Ziggy’s bowl and puts on the kettle, leaning against the counter while idly watching the other two play.  
  
"So who’s winning?” he asks, already knowing the answer.  
  
“Not Roger,” John says, face arranged in a carefully blank expression, but there’s a smile in his voice, which breaks onto his face when Roger elbows him in the side.  
  
“Did you eat at all?” he asks, looking through the cupboard in search of coffee.  
  
“A bag of Cheese and Onion,” Roger replies before throwing his whole body to the left to avoid crashing into another player.  
  
“Maybe you should get some sleep,” he suggests, blowing at his tea.  
  
“I just need to win, just one more time.”  
  
John keeps quiet, and races past the goal line.  
  
While waiting for the water to boil, Brian takes out his phone to check his university email. There’s a new one from one of his favourite professors, but he rarely ever writes emails. Curious, he opens it, leaning back against the counter while waiting for it to load. He glances at John and Roger who is finally turning off the TV, and when he looks at his screen again, a rather long mail has appeared.  
  
He scans the contents of it rather quickly, at once filled with excitement and quite a bit of nausea.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispers, just as Freddie enters the room, dressed in a kimono and drying his hair with a towel.  
  
“You alright, dear? You look terribly pale.”  
  
“No, I—” he begins, dimly aware of John and Roger turning to peer curiously at him as well, “my professor, he wants me to be a part of a team going to Tenerife.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re not gonna go!”

Horrified, Freddie whirls around to glare at Roger, but John has already delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs.

“What do you mean I’m not gonna go?” Brian asks slowly, and Freddie almost groans out loud, because oh god, he already looks annoyed, “I don’t remember putting you in charge of my life.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Roger tries, still rubbing his side, but at least looking like he thinks he deserved it, “you—”

“You know, I actually have a life outside this band,” Brian interrupts, and Freddie winces, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked for this? What this could mean for my future?”

“Well maybe that’s why we never get anywhere,” Roger says hotly, taking a step towards him, “everyone but you is committed to the band!”

As the words leave his mouth, a flicker of regret shows on Roger's face, but he quickly suppresses it, and Freddie shoots John an alarmed glance.

The bassist nods and curls a hand around Roger’s elbow, gently tugging. “Come on, Rog, let’s get some sleep.”

“You’ve got some nerve saying that,” Brian says, raising his voice. The grip around his phone is so tight his hand is shaking.

“Well, it’s true! John, let go of me!”

“Will you both stop?” Freddie says, tired of their arguing, “it’s half past six in morning, for Christ’s sake.”

Brian snaps his mouth closed, expression sour, and Roger seems torn between protesting and letting it go. John seizes the opportunity to drag him off, and then he goes willingly enough, if only to direct his complaints at John in hushed whispers. The door shuts behind them, and Freddie lets out a sigh of relief. He plasters on a smile and turns to Brian.

“Come on, dear, why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?” he suggests, throwing his towel over the back of a chair and putting a hand on Brian’s shoulder, “do you want tea?”

“Yes,” Brian sighs, sitting down at the table with his head in his hands, “please. Thank you.”

“So Tenerife, that sounds nice,” he says lightly, crouching to search the lower cupboards for a teapot, “lots of gay bars there I hear, and you’ll come back nice and tan.”

When he looks back up, having now found the teapot, Brian’s lips have pulled into a reluctant smile “When is it?”

“In April,” Brian says, smile falling from his face, “three days after the last gig.”

Pursing his lips, Freddie sets about making tea, not sure how to respond. If the tour turns out to be a success, more offers may follow, and if Brian decides to take up on this offer, they would either have to turn down potential gigs, or be quick about finding a suitable replacement. Neither seem favorable, but he sees no point in bringing it up, as Brian has likely thought about that already.

“This is a huge opportunity,” Brian continues, “if I want to start working on my Ph.D. next year, this trip would provide an invaluable foundation for further research.”

He nods, leaning back against the counter while the tea steeps. “When do you have to get back to your professor?”

“Don’t know,” Brian shrugs, “soon.”

Freddie chews on his lip for a moment. “Are you gonna tell your parents?”

“I don’t see why not,” Brian says slowly, not looking at him, “I’ll be visiting them tonight anyway. Reckon they’ll be happy.”

When he does looks at him, Brian's eyes are filled with so much vulnerability and doubt that Freddie simply has to lean down and give him a hug.

“Of course they will,” he says with sincerity, “and they have all reason to be. But take your time, dear. You know we’ll support you no matter what you choose.”

“Yeah,” Brian breathes, squeezing Freddie’s arm before letting him go. “Not sure about Roger, though.”

“Roger’s been up all night,” he says, not wanting to get mixed up in their argument when essentially, he agrees with Roger.

Brian drops his gaze, seemingly understanding. “Thank you.”

He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of milk. “Whatever for, dear?”

“Listening, I suppose. I do want this, you know. I just can’t let my parents down.”

Aware that this is a sensitive subject and not wanting to make the same mistake Roger has made countless of times, Freddie takes his time making the cup of tea, searching his brain for an appropriate answer.

“Surely the reason your parents want you to pursue an academic career is because they think that’s what’s best for you,” he says at last, handing Brian his cup of tea and sitting down opposite of him.

“Yeah,” Brian sighs. “I really don’t know, Fred.”

“Wanna talk about something else?” he asks carefully, hoping he doesn’t come across as insensitive.

To his relief Brian nods, warming his hands on his cup.

“Alright," he grins, "when’s the last time you got laid?”

“Smooth.”

“You just seem so tense lately, I thought we might find you someone to take off the edge. A foretaste of Tenerife if you like,” he adds with a tentative smile.

“I’d rather avoid sleeping with one of your exes,” Brian says between sips of tea.

“I’d never,” Freddie says, “we’ll find you someone fresh from the closet.”

“Ah yes, guilt and inexperience, that’s always nice.”

“I’m afraid there aren’t many left, then,” he says, feigning thoughtfulness.  
  
“Bullshit,” Brian laughs, “it’s, what, 5% of the city’s population that identifies as queer? There’s no way you’ve slept with them all.”

He smiles coyly. “I’ve been around.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Brian says, stretching, “might be nice, though. It’s been awhile.”

“We’ll find you someone,” Freddie promises, frowning slightly when he catches sight of a bit of glitter still left on the table. “Did you stay up late last night? I didn’t hear you come back.”

“Yeah, had to look over my lecture notes, I won’t have time to do it tonight if I’m visiting my folks.”

“You work too hard, dear.”

Brian drags a hand through his hair and breathes out through his nose. “I have to if I want to continue making music.”

Freddie nods but doesn’t offer a reply, instead letting his gaze wander to the mess left behind by the rhythm section.

“Freddie?”

“Hm?”

“Are there really a lot of gay bars on Tenerife?”

“Haven't got a clue, dear,” he smiles, “you tell me when you get back.”

“Yeah,” Brian says, and Freddie feels confident that no matter what he decides to do, it will turn out all right.

“Alright, I have to get dressed,” he announces, “cheer up, darling, or you’ll never get laid.”  
  


♛ ♛ ♛  
  


When it’s nearly half past nine, the door to John and Roger’s room opens, and out steps Roger, looking far too bright eyed for someone who has only got three hours of sleep. Brian, now dressed and halfway through a second cup of coffee, briefly looks up from the book he’s reading but he doesn’t turn around.

Roger flicks his gaze from Brian’s back to Freddie, who shrugs at the question in his eyes. He quietly closes the door to his room and walks over to stand behind Brian, whose attention is now stubbornly focused on his book.

“I’m really sorry about earlier,” Roger says quietly. He places a hand on Brian’s shoulder, and continues, perhaps oblivious to the way Brian tenses up, “I shouldn’t have gone at you like I did.”

“Don’t worry about it,“ Brian replies, voice adopting a faux pleasant tone, “I understand.”

“Right,” Roger says uncertainly, quickly removing his hand. Freddie doesn’t blame him, because an angry Brian is a ticking bomb, and that no matter how many layers of faux friendliness he wraps it in, “we’ll talk about it later, yeah? Are you home tonight?”

“No.”

Roger looks at Freddie with pained eyes, giving a slight jerk of his head towards the door. Freddie nods and quickly packs up his stuff.

“Uh.. well, alright. Hope you have a nice day, then,” Roger says at last, staring helplessly at the back of Brian’s head

Counting himself lucky not to be in Roger's shoes right in this moment, Freddie picks up his stuff and walks back to his room to get ready for work.

“What do you think of my new snowsuit?” Roger asks when Freddie, armed with piping hot tea and his totebag, finds him in the hall a while later.

“It’s awful, and I hate it,” he says, reaching for his coat, “if you think I’ll risk being seen with you while you’re wearing that, you’re direly mistaken.”

“It’s not that bad!” Roger protests, “and it’s warm, so.”

“It’s yellow,” Freddie says with distaste, “even your pretty face isn’t going to make up for the fact that you’ve got the Amnesty logo emblazoned all over you.”

“You are so judgemental,” Roger says mildly, “here I am, saving lives on a daily basis, and you—”

He lets out a snort of laughter. “Saving lives, eh?”

“I bet you they wouldn’t make half of what they do without my ‘pretty face’, as you so kindly describes it,” Roger grins.

“I doubt they make much anyway, any sane person steers a wide berth around Amnesty fundraisers.”

Roger looks at him, surprised. “They do? Most people I talk to seem friendly enough.”

“I doubt it makes much difference is all I’m saying,” Freddie says, because if Roger’s looks and charm do in fact get people to sign up rather than avoid him, he doesn’t want to know, “are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Once outside in the cold, Roger hands him his work tablet with a “hold this, will you?” and reaches into that ridiculous snowsuit of his to produce a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.

“Like I’m not carrying enough already,” Freddie grumbles, “if I spill tea all over myself because you couldn’t wait five more minutes for a smoke then I’m seriously suing.”

“Alright, calm down,” Roger says and takes back his tablet, tucking it under his arm, “this alright? Not getting smoke on you?”

Freddie shakes his head and takes a sip of tea. It really is freezing, and for a second he almost envies Roger, who doesn't appear bothered by the cold at all.

“Did you talk to Brian?” Roger asks after a while of walking in silence, “after, I mean.”

“Yes,” he says, “he thinks you don't support him.”

Roger exhales heavily, the cloud of smoke quickly dissolving in the wind. “Of course I do,” he says, “it's just… does he really want this, or is he doing it to please his parents? He's so stressed all the time.”

“I think it's a bit of both,” he says but, despite seeing Roger's point quite clearly, finds it necessary to add, “this was a proud moment for him, though.”

“I know. And I ruined that, yeah,” Roger sighs, “no wonder he didn't want to talk to me. I really didn't mean to dismiss his achievements, I just think—well, suppose it doesn't really matter what I think.”

“Tell that to him, not me,” Freddie says, reaching for his Oyster card as they near the station, “but I wouldn't worry too much, dear. Both of you are insufferable and horribly childish when you argue, and I doubt any of you will change anytime soon.”

"Gee, thanks, Fred. Ever thought about becoming a therapist?" Roger says, swiping his Oyster card over the magnetic reader. "What exactly is your point?"

"You'll be fine," he says, "don't worry."  
  


♛ ♛ ♛  
  


Freddie is, generally speaking, quite content to work in Beyond Retro. The store itself is cosy enough, and he gets to help and talk to vintage lovers like himself. While a lot of the clothing sold is a bit too 90s for his taste, and some of it looks like it’s been pulled directly from Brian’s closet, they do have some interesting things once in awhile. The biggest perk of working there, of course, is that he gets to look through the clothes before it's put for sale - if he happens to find a particular interesting piece he’ll buy it and sell it for twice as much over at their stall at Portobello Market. It’s a rare occurrence, and it’s not as cheap as the second-hand shops he usually browses, but he enjoys it nonetheless. Add friendly co-workers, and the hours usually fly by.

Not today. After the eventful morning, the day seems to drag by, and despite attempts at distracting himself, his mood gradually darkens. The shop is unusually quiet, and out of the ten or so people that appear during his shift, only a few of them buy anything, the rest of them trying on a whole armful of clothes only to leave it in a pile in the fitting room. His co-worker had called in sick earlier, and while initially fine with it, Freddie quickly begins to miss her company. By 20.29 he is already putting on his coat, desperate to be out of there. As soon as he’s closed up, he rushes out into the cold evening, hands gloved and nose buried deep in his scarf.  
  
It’s as he’s stepping onto the Central line that he’s hit with the first wave of sadness, and he curses softly, because despite months of yoga and mindfulness, he still doesn’t how to handle his own moods, sudden or not.

 _Anybody home?_ He writes in the group chat, already racking his brain for places he can go should none of them be at home.  
  
Only Brian replies, but he is with his parents and can’t help him, so Freddie slides the phone back in his pocket and watches people leave and enter the compartment.  
  
The flat is dark when he lets himself in, but Ziggy is there, and it’s when he comes running towards him that Freddie breaks apart completely. He scoops the cat up and hugs him tight, buries his face in the soft fur, so fucking thankful for this blessed creature. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights, just toes off his shoes and makes for his room, still trying to hold back sobs even though there is no one there.  
  
Once in his room, he situates himself on the floor, because it's still too early to ruin his nicely made bed, he thinks. Ziggy settles in his lap, beginning to purr the moment Freddie starts petting him.  
  
“I still miss him, you know,” he tells the cat, not bothering to wipe away his tears, “it’s been years and I’m still not over it, how sad is that?”  
  
Ziggy continues to purr, and Freddie continues to cry.  
  
“Do you remember him at all? You were only a kitten back then, we didn’t even know John yet,” he continues, and then, upon thinking of John and the beginning of the band, remembers Brian’s offer. “And now Brian is going to fucking Tenerife, and I don’t know what we’ll do without him. Maybe you'll forget about him, too.”  
  
He sheds a few tears for that, too, but then feels terribly selfish, and is just about to tell Ziggy so when he hears the front door.  
  
A minute or so passes, Freddie listening to the noises coming from other parts of the flat and feeling himself relax, just a little. When his bedroom door opens, he is momentarily blinded by the light streaming in.  
  
“Freddie?” comes John’s quiet voice, and Freddie has never been more relieved to see him, “are you alright?”  
  
“‘Course I am, dear,” he says lightly, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his own wet face in the mirror, but feeling a million times better already.  
  
“Can I come in?”  
  
“If you must," he says, like he doesn't care.  
  
John closes the door behind him, and the room is once again dark. “The bed’s not more comfortable?” he asks, arranging himself on the floor next to Freddie.  
  
He shrugs, not fancying trying to explain how much work he puts into making it every morning. One look at John’s bed says he wouldn’t understand.  
  
He can feel John watching him, but he doesn’t say anything, much to Freddie’s chagrin. The waiting game is easily John’s favourite, and no wonder, because he always wins.  
  
Feeling like he’s about to spill everything already, but too proud to, Freddie tries a different approach.  
  
“I wish I knew what you're thinking,” he says. The other two he can read like books, but John is a different matter entirely.  
  
John tilts his head. “I wish you weren't sad.”  
  
“You're sweet,” he sniffs.  
  
“I’m just a sweet kind of guy,” comes John’s flat reply. Freddie is torn between smiling and rolling his eyes, but eventually settles on the latter.  
  
“We should separate you two,” he says, “I don’t know whose bad humour rubbed off on whom, but I don’t like it either way.”  
  
John smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Freddie want to pinch his cheek, but doesn’t offer a reply. Freddie lets out a small sigh.  
  
“He might leave,” he says, serious again, “Brian.”  
  
“I know,” John says, “it’s quite an opportunity to get.”  
  
“We might have to start looking for his replacement,” he says, feeling sick. It doesn’t seem like a fair thing to do, because he knows how much the band means to Brian, how much time and work he has put into it, all the while juggling with studies and too much work as well. “God knows I don’t want to, but we’ve wasted enough time already.”  
  
“I think we could probably make it work anyway, should he decide to go,” John offers.  
  
“I don’t want him to,” he says, but then shakes himself. “You should’ve seen Roger attempt to talk to him this morning, it was awful. He had that whole passive aggressive thing going on where he acts friendly enough but you know he is thinking about beheading Debbie Harry,” he says, referring to Roger’s most beloved cardboard cutout.  
  
“I hope he doesn’t, Roger would be crushed,” John smiles and adds, “it’s also bad enough I have to sleep in the same room as the cardboard version of her, I’d rather she didn’t lose her head as well.”  
  
“Ha,” he says, but then falls silent. He feels tears creep up his throat again, and bites the inside of his cheek, thankful for the darkness.  
  
“Freddie?”  
  
“Yeah?” he sniffs.  
  
“What’s the real reason you’re sad?”  
  
John’s tone of voice is so sincere, his face so open and eyes kind, that Freddie lets the tears spill. He is surprised but grateful when John pulls him in for a hug, and he clings back, comforted by the calm he exudes. Ziggy, almost getting crushed, leaves his lap with an air of offence.  
  
They sit like that for a while, Freddie crying silently and wetting John’s t-shirt, but also not really caring. Then John begins, quietly but also horribly out of key, to sing the opening verse of  _Chiquitita_.   
  
Freddie snorts in spite of himself and pulls back.

  
“I've always wanted to do that, y’know,” John confides, “ever since I saw the movie for the first time.”  
  
Freddie grimaces. “Make me a drink, why don't you, but please don't live out your fantasies at my expense.”  
  
“Tell me what’s wrong and I might,” John says, looking at him openly. Ziggy paws at the door.  
  
“All right,” he says with reluctance, getting up to open the door and wincing because his leg has fallen asleep. He hobbles into the living room and flops down in the armchair, noting how John looks amused when he passes him. He hears Ziggy’s bowl being filled, and a moment later, John appears again with two glasses of red.  
  
“And where did you imagine I should sit?” John asks.  
  
“Sit here with me,” he says, scooting over and patting the space next to him. It’s a bit of a tight fit, but the chair is large enough for two people to sit in, which has been proved on various occasions, most often because Roger has been too stubborn to give it up.  
  
John eyes are wary, but he hands Freddie the glasses and sits down anyway. When he has settled, Freddie drapes his legs over John’s thighs and hands him his glass back. John rolls his eyes, but is obviously hiding a fond smile behind the rim of his glass.  
  
Already feeling better, Freddie takes a sip of wine, but quickly puts it down again. It’s the sort of cheap, boxed thing Brian buys, and quite frankly the last thing Freddie would choose for himself.  
  
“Sorry, it was that or the year-old coffee liqueur,” John says, not missing the look on Freddie’s face, and he supposes that's fair. John nudges his arm. "Tell me what's wrong?”   
  
He looks around the room to buy himself more time, quite aware of John's eyes on him. “It’s nothing really, just me being silly,” he says eventually, waving a dismissive hand before pausing, hating what he’s about to say. “It’s just, sometimes I feel so lonely.”  
  
John looks like he doesn’t know what to say, and Freddie can’t blame him. He takes a sip of wine to hide his embarrassment, having already forgot how horrible it tastes. He hands it to John, who wordlessly puts it down on the table next to his own.  
  
“Do you—”  
  
“I miss Jim,” he admits, voice small. Then, figuring it’s not the polite thing to talk about exes when practically sitting in another bloke’s lap, even if said bloke happens to be a very good friend, one that at this moment looks adorably, but also heart-crushingly, worried, he continues, “but not to worry! These moods pass, dear, they always do. Tomorrow the sun will be shining out my arse again.”  
  
John opens his mouth and closes it again. His hand has found Freddie’s knee and begun absently stroking it, which would be nice if he didn’t look so uncomfortable.  
  
“You won’t tell on me, will you, dear?” he asks, rubbing his drying cheeks. Roger would get worried and Brian uncomfortable, and none of them need that.  
  
“Freddie,” John says, voice not his own.  
  
“I’m fine,” he assures, voice gentle. John looks as close to crying as Freddie has ever seen him.  
  
“It’s the 24th tomorrow,” he stresses, “I can’t believe I forgot. God, Freddie, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be silly,” he says, but can already feel his throat closing up again. “It’s a long time ago.”  
  
“That doesn’t matter,” John whispers, and it occurs to him that John is thinking about his dad, and he forgets why he was trying to act like he is fine, because if the thought of little Deaky losing his dad is devastating on a good day, it’s ten times worse now.  
  
He cries and cries then, and for a long while John just holds him, not saying anything but being everything he needs anyway. By the time the front door opens, he has mostly stopped, but still buries his face in John’s neck when he hears steps coming towards them.  
  
“Don’t you two look cosy,” comes Roger’s cheerful voice, and Freddie wants to laugh but doesn’t.  
  
“We were just talking about Freddie’s dead boyfriend," John says, tone serious, "you're a little late, but we can go over it again if you wanna join?”  
  
Freddie really does laugh this time, and when he looks up, John is smiling.  
  
Roger, used to John joking about his dad, cracks a smile of his own before looking down at Freddie. “You okay, buddy?”  
  
“Don’t ever call me buddy again,” Freddie says, trying to look as intimidating as possible, which probably isn’t much considering he’s still crying a little bit.  
  
“Alright,” Roger says, sitting down on the armrest and picking up a glass of wine, “so, dead boyfriend, huh?”

  
  
♛ ♛ ♛

  
“What’s a sound you can’t stand?” Roger asks from where he’s lying on the floor in an exhausted heap. They have just finished band practise and have now retreated to the living room for a much needed break before going back to readings and papers.

  
“The sound of a pencil breaking,” John says, “it’s the sound of utter disappointment.”

“Freddie’s alarm in the morning,” Brian says, nudging Freddie’s foot with his own. Freddie lightly kicks him. 

“People who can’t play trying to play an instrument,” he says with a shudder. 

“Does that in- or exclude singing?” Roger asks lazily, “because I recall you telling me about a certain someone singing you Chiquitita last week.”

“You didn’t!” Brian says, turning to John, “oh, that’s brilliant.”

“It certainly was,” Freddie sniffs, and John lets out a snort of laughter.

“What about you, Rog?” Brian asks.

“Have I sung Chiquitita?” Roger says, “oh yes, plenty of times.”

“What’s a sound you dislike?”

“People preaching,” he says, “can’t bloody stand it.”

“Mhm, certainly gets you all worked up,” Brian agrees, smile stretching his face, “remember that guy with the cross last year?”  
  
“Had to drag you away, you wouldn’t stop arguing,” Freddie continues with a fond smile.  
  
“The best part was when he tried to break the cross. It must have been around eight feet tall and made of solid wood, did you really think you'd stand a chance?”  
  
“Alright, alright, don’t remind me,” Roger groans, throwing an arm across his face, “but I wasn’t the only one who thought he was annoying.”

  
“No, but we keep our opinions to ourselves,” Freddie says and, when the other three protest, adds, “mostly.”  
  
“You’re not exactly shy either, Freddie.”  
  
“At least I don’t argue with strangers— what? Alright, when?”  
  
“Just about every time you enter a store,” Brian says.  
  
“I do not!”  
  
“You certainly don’t mind telling them if you think the service is bad,” Roger says.  
  
“Or that you find their clothes repellent,” Brian says and continues in a poor imitation of Freddie’s voice, “‘are you sure you should be working here wearing that outfit, dear?’”  
  
“Didn’t you get into a fight with an old lady once?” John asks.  
  
“She wasn’t _old_ ,” he says, “and this was an original Biba dress, they are _so_ rare, and usually they cost a fortune!”  
  
“You don’t even wear dresses.”  
  
“Did you not hear me?”  
  
“Well, how much did you make then?”  
  
“I gave it to Mary,” he says, and Roger groans.  
  
“You fought an old lady for that? You could’ve bought her an ordinary dress.”  
  
“She was not old! Besides, she was way too big for that dress, why would she want it in the first place?”  
  
Brian covers his eyes with a hand. “Oh dear.”  
  
Just then, Roger's stomach begins to growl, and he looks down, surprised. “Oh, okay. Anyone else hungry?”  
  
“Depends on what you’re having,” Freddie says.  
  
“Sushi,” comes the answer, Roger already scrolling through the menu on his phone.  
  
“Yes, alright, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he replies, leaning his head back again the armrest of the couch.  
  
“Bri? Some delicious, fish-free sushi for you?”  
  
“I think I’ll pass.”  
  
“Me too,” John says.  
  
“Alright, let’s go,” Roger says and jumps up, suddenly full of energy. "Last one outside carries it home!"

  
♛ ♛ ♛

  
When Freddie steps out of the shower Wednesday morning, Brian has already left for work, and the other two appear to be sleeping still, so he makes what he can of his downtime, idly doodling while drinking his warm lemon-honey water and wondering when his new throw pillows will arrive.

He is about to go get dressed when John makes an appearance, yawning widely and squinting against the light. Freddie thinks he looks an awful lot like some small animal or other, hair mussed with sleep and one sleeve-covered hand rubbing his face.

“Good morning,” Freddie greets, but pulls a face when he notices his mismatched socks, one hot pink and glittery, the other black with a pattern of cacti. 

John yawns again and sits down in the chair opposite of Freddie, head coming down to rest on his folded arms. “Morning.”

“You’re as bad as Brian, dear,” he tuts, “do you want coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

Freddie gets up and puts on the kettle, finds John’s Lord of the Rings mug and the instant coffee, because he still hasn’t figured out how to make it with a filter bag, and frankly, he doesn’t care to learn it.

“Here you go,” he says when he’s done, placing the mug next to John.

“Thanks,” John says and reaches for the sugar bowl. 

He shakes his head, silently amused, and makes for his bedroom. John trails after him, coffee left on the table. "Any plans the weekend?"

"Not yet," John says, stopping in the doorway to pick at a loose thread on his shirt.

"Oh brilliant, you can come with me!" he says, opening his bedside drawer to retrieve a small pair of silver scissors which he hands to John before he starts dressing. “I’ve been dying to go out.”

“Suppose I wouldn’t mind,” John says, and while Freddie thinks he could sound a bit more enthusiastic, he opens up his wardrobe and lets it be.

"This one's new, right?"

He looks up from where he is sifting through his shirts. John is on his knees on Freddie's bed, looking at the rows of Barbier prints on the wall above. He feels giddy, overtly pleased that John has noticed.

"She's gorgeous, isn't she?" he all but breathes. They all are, all fine lines and pastel colours, charming and so wonderfully _French_.

"She is," he nods. Pauses, then points at another. "This one's on your copy of The Great Gatsby."

"Yes."

"Have you ever read it?" John asks, turning around to face him.

"No," Freddie admits, shimmering into a pair of tights. John's eyes crinkles.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone who buys books just because they look pretty."

"Everything I buy is because it looks pretty."

"I know."

"It'll probably rub off at some point anyway," he says, waving a hand towards his small bookcase.

"Probably," says John, an amused smile on his lips still.

"Do you have lectures today?"

"Not today, no. Might catch up on my readings. Why?"

"I have a yoga class in an hour, it'd be nice if we could go together."

"I can't really see the point," John admits, “it sounds painful.”

"Pain’s not too bad after awhile, and it helps me stay bendy," he says with what he thinks is a sly smile. John looks decidedly unimpressed. "All right, well, I'm meeting up with Mary later. But you did want to come Friday? Maybe we can get Brian and Roger to come as well, it's been awhile since we've been out all four of us."

"Last week?" John says, amused.

“That was two pints, and Brian left after an hour.”

“Yeah okay,” John allows.

With a critical glance in the mirror, Freddie deems himself acceptable for yoga class, and, gathering his things, he returns to his honey-lemon water and half eaten toast. John putters around the kitchen for a while making breakfast, and Freddie picks up his pen again, quite content with life.


	3. Chapter 3

Hands occupied with two steaming cups of to-go coffee, he escapes the London drizzle by nudging the door to the second-hand bookstore open with his shoulder. At the sound of the bell above the door, the store owner appears from the back room, but upon seeing him merely fixes his coffee a pointed look before disappearing again, completely ignoring Roger's dazzling smile. Not fazed, he directs it at the two other customers instead, puts down his coffees on the counter, and makes for the stairs.

He has always thought it rather creepy how the oxygen seems to leave the air the further down the stairs he goes, and by the time he has reached the foot of the staircase, he is struggling to breathe properly. The air is heavy with the smell of old books, and the single customer in the room is something of a fossil, skin paper thin and hair a wisp of cotton.

Smiling politely to the old man, Roger walks into the adjoining room, immediately spotting Brian towering high above the ground on a step ladder, slotting books into one of the cases, his back to Roger.

He is about to say something wonderfully witty about ladders and long-limbed guitarists, but Brian beats him to it.

"Give me a minute," Brian says, not turning to look at him.

Feeling somewhat deflated, Roger picks at the worn cover of a book in the bookcase next to him, slightly put out by the less than warm welcome. "How'd you know it was me?"

"I could sense your obnoxious personality long before you entered the room."

"Gee, thanks."

Brian doesn't reply, but he starts climbing carefully down the ladder, and when he turns to Roger, a smile is playing on his lips.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, then?"

"Well I was in the area, and—"

"You were in the area," Brian interrupts, voice flat.

"Yes, picking up strings for John's bass," Roger says with patience, lifting his arm demonstratively so the plastic bag around his wrist dangles, and continues, "and I happened to remember that you didn't have time to pack a lunch this morning, and I also know that are you left to yourself, you’re going to convince yourself that it's not worth spending money on, and because you really must eat, I thought we could have lunch together!"

"I'd be flattered by the amount of care if I didn't happen to know that there quite conveniently lies a Wasabi just around the corner," Brian says, moving the ladder so it’s not blocking the bookcase.

"There does?" Roger says, feigning thoughtfulness, "that _is_ convenient ..."

Brian snorts. "Alright then, let's go before I change my mind."

Once presented with a cup of coffee, Brian's already unusually good mood brightens, and Roger is almost feeling brave enough to ask the question he’s been dying to ask ever since Brian forgave him five days ago.

He doesn’t, though, and Brian speaks instead. “Are you going with Freddie and Deaks later?”

“No,” Roger says regretfully, “I’ve got some readings to do.”

It isn’t that he usually bothers to do more than skim the provided pre-lecture notes, but with exams just around the corner, he has decided he might as well prepare for the last lecture of the year.

“What about you?” he asks, secretly hoping that Brian stays at home as well, because otherwise he’ll _have_ to ditch his readings. His social life is undeniably more important to him than school, and no way he is staying home reading if everybody else is out having fun.

“I think I’ll stay home as well,” Brian says, and Roger hopes the relief he feels isn’t showing too much, “been a rather busy week.”

_All_ of Brian’s weeks are rather busy, but he usually agrees to at least one pint come the weekend. Roger glances at him, wondering if this is where he asks him if something is wrong. Then they reach Wasabi, and he can’t speak because he is downing the rest of his coffee before throwing the cup in a nearby litter bin.

Brian holds the door open for him, and as he sees the rows of sushi boxes, he promptly forgets all about the questions he wants to ask. He wants to buy _everything_ , and pores over the boxes for what he thinks must be at least five minutes, but in the end it’s a tie between the Hana set and the Harmony set.

“Bri, I need your help,” he says, just as Brian finishes paying for his brown rice Yasai set, and holds up both boxes, “do I want the Hana set or the Harmony set? Or perhaps the Rainbow set, but it only has 14 pieces. Unless I buy the chicken yakisoba as w—where are you going? I’m speaking to you!”

“Just choose something,” Brian says, sounding bored. He has situated himself at a nearby table, and is now opening his box to begin the slow, meticulous process of spreading equal amounts of wasabi and pickled ginger on his sushi.

A bit offended, but determined not to show it, Roger turns away from Brian and walks up to pay for the Harmony set. He lingers by the snacks long enough to bore the cashier, and promises himself to stop by a Tesco later.

He sits down next to Brian. “Are you staying home tomorrow as well?”

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

“One of Tim’s friends is hosting a—you know, party thing,” he says between mouthfuls of sushi, “how can you not know this? Tim even mentioned it when he was here. Oh, and a few from Freddie’s gay crowd’s coming as well.”

“Don’t call them that,” Brian says, not for the first time.

“Thought you were looking to get laid,” he says, reaching for Brian’s soya.

“How—”

“Freddie told me. And he’s right, you’re seriously tense these days.”

“I’m not _tense_ , I’ve just been—you know. Busy.”

“Which makes you tense.”

Brian puts down his chopsticks in favour of taking a sip of coffee. Then he watches Roger for a long moment, so long that Roger begins to feel slightly uncomfortable, and quickly shoves his last piece of sushi into his mouth instead.

“What would you do if you were in my position?” Brian asks eventually, picking up his chopsticks again.

Roger thinks the answer is pretty obvious, but says anyway, “probably cut myself some slack and not work three jobs outside school.”

“If you got an offer like mine,” Brian says with an expression that says that he thinks Roger is being difficult, “if you were to choose between going and staying.”

“I’m never gonna be in a position like that,” Roger says.

Brian gives him a look, but Roger means what he says. Brian has this whole complicated relationship with his parents, one which seems to built on guilt and expectations and love a little too fierce, and while Roger loves his parents very much, he wouldn’t let them get a say in something regarding his future. And as for school, well, he’s only doing it until the band gets on its feet.

“You know what I would do,” he says at last.

Brian picks up a piece of sushi, studies it carefully. “Right.”

“Have you talked to John about it?” Roger asks, sorry he cannot help even though he feels he should be able to, “I think he would understand. Better than Fred and I, at least.”

“Ah, no, haven’t. Want the rest of this?” Brian asks, pushing his box towards Roger.

“Thanks,” Roger says carefully, “but you’ve barely eaten anything.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Brian says, picking up his cup of coffee, “besides, I have to get back soon.”

So that's what they do. Roger eats the rest of the sushi, Brian drinks the last of his coffee, and then Brian goes back to the shop at Charing Cross Road. Roger watches his retreating back for a second, wondering why he always feels like he's missing something when he talks to Brian. Then he goes to find Freddie.

Beyond Retro is downstairs as well, but unlike the bookstore, it’s possible to breathe, and even though it smells like old clothes, it's a fairly nice store. Full of wannabe hippies, of course, but he supposes they have to buy their overpriced second-hand clothes somewhere. As soon as he steps inside, he spots Freddie behind counter, dressed in satin trousers and a flowery, embroidered jacket, and chatting to a customer in a weird, fringed cape with horses on.

"I'm out in twenty minutes, darling, if you'll wait here?" Freddie says when the customer leaves and Roger has is just about done judging everyone’s outfits.

"Sure," Roger says, about to ask if he can come to the backroom to play Candy Crush, but then Freddie steps out from behind the counter and gestures for him to follow.

They weave in and out between clothing racks, Freddie occasionally going through one at lightning speed, picking out ugly shirts and Levi's, a pair of red trousers and a velvet jacket, before he hands it all to Roger. "I want you to try this, I think it might fit you." 

Roger would really much rather play Candy Crush and almost says so, but Freddie is already walking away, and so he grudgingly follows.

It's not so bad when he's in the fitting room, and he quite likes both jacket and red trousers. The Levi's fit him well, but they are expensive, and he already have several pairs back home. The shirts are not so bad on, but the colours are dull and they smell a bit weird. Roger has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that anyone would wear this back in the 1970s, let alone now. It looks good on Freddie though, and Roger himself has a couple of things back home—gifted to him by Freddie—which he quite likes, but was he to browse the store by himself, he doesn't think he would even try something on.

"Roger?" Freddie calls a while later, when Roger has tried it all on and become distracted by his phone.

"In here."

“Don’t sit on the floor, dear,” Freddie tuts, “get up and let me see you.”

Roger does, with some difficulty, and turns around when Freddie tells him to.

"I like the jacket on you," Freddie says, looking at him critically, “ _ not _ with that shirt, though. How about this one?”

Roger makes a face. “I really don’t like that one.”

“Try it with the red trousers.”

Figuring it’ll be over sooner if he just does what Freddie tells him, he strips down to his underwear, accepting trousers and shirt from Freddie. 

“It’s not very professional to ogle your potential customers, is it?” Roger asks, fastening the buttons. Not that it bothers him, but he thinks Freddie could at least pretend not to look.

“Are you kidding, it’s the best part of the job,” Freddie says, in that way that makes Roger question whether he is joking or not, “it’s not the first time I’ve lured a customer into the fitting rooms.”

“Please spare me the details,” Roger says, pained. 

“What do you think of this?” Freddie asks, moving out of the way so Roger can look himself in the mirror.

“It’s better,” Roger admits.

“You can also pair it with these,” Freddie says, picking up a pair of discarded Levi’s, “they’re a shade darker, it’ll look better than with the light ones.”

They finally leave the store 15 minutes later, but only after Roger has tried on every possible combination, plus a satin top and a pair of shoes which he may have fallen a little bit in love with.

"I haven't had lunch yet,” Freddie says as they step out on the street, “we can eat at Wasabi if you want?"

"If you insist," Roger says, unable to help a grin forming.

Freddie glances at him, amused. “I really don’t.”

“Aw come one, it’s been ages!”

Once inside, Roger goes straight for the Hana set, smiling widely at the cashier when he pays because he is not ashamed.

“That was fast,” Freddie says, joining him a moment later, “did you have sushi earlier?”

“No,” Roger says, letting out a little sigh of happiness. 

They take the tube to Notting Hill Gate and walk the rest of the way to Portobello Road where Mary is waiting by the stand. 

“You’re late,” she says, looking unhappy even as Freddie apologises and greets her with a kiss on the cheek, “I have a lecture in 40 minutes.”

They usually manage the stand alone, but other than actual vintage clothes, they also sell some of Mary’s creations, and if an emergency comes up, she will, albeit unwillingly, take over for awhile. Today Freddie had a morning shift he couldn’t get out of, and Roger a mind-numbing 8am class which he barely survived, and only because of three iced coffees and the pack of Jaffa Cakes in his bag. 

“See you later,” Mary says, and it’s only when she tries to hug him goodbye that Roger realises he’s zoned out. 

Not much time passes before he finds himself missing his warm, not actually yellow, snowsuit, and he looks with envy at Freddie, who is wearing very nice gloves and a new vintage fur coat. It was of course fake fur when showed to Brian, but Roger suspects it really is not. Suppressing a shiver, Roger buries his hands, red and stiff from the cold, deeper in his pockets.

“What do you want for your gloves?” he asks.

Freddie eyes him over the rim of his thermo mug. “A blowjob.”

“Freddie, come ooon.”

“Alright, give me your hands,” Freddie sighs, putting his tea down and taking off his gloves.

Eagerly, Roger does, and Freddie sandwiches them between his own for a moment before he starts massaging life back into his hands. Then two women stop by the stall, and Freddie and his nice, warm hands leave him cold and miserable once again. At least he can light a smoke now, he thinks, patting his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.

"You really shouldn't smoke near the clothes," Freddie says, once their customers have left with one of Mary's dresses.

"We're outside," he complains, but stubs it out anyway, because it’s a lousy argument and he knows it.

Freddie sits down on the folding chair and reaches for his tea. "Have you bought your Christmas presents yet?"

"Only for you and John."

"Oh?" Freddie says, a glint in his dark eyes, "what did you get us?"

"For John I bought that Yellow Submarine box set from HappySocks," Roger says, reaching for Freddie's forgotten gloves, "and for you a great, big bag of coal."

"Now that was a disappointing ending to that sentence," Freddie says, and Roger swats his shoulder with one of the gloves, "been naughty, have I?"

"When aren't you?" he says, nudging Freddie's expensive boot with the toe of his own, "what about you?"

Freddie sighs, loud and dramatic. "I have no fucking idea what to get Brian and John, to be honest."

"That super expensive chess set for John, and more books he'll never read for Brian. There."

"Chess set?" Freddie asks, an incredulous look on his face, "John plays chess?"

"Not that I know of," Roger shrugs, "no, it's that super rare, super expensive Lord of the Rings chess set he's been lusting after the past four years."

"I think not," Freddie says, cradling his mug in his lap. 

Roger rolls his eyes, fondly.

♛ ♛ ♛   
  


He goes straight for the shower once he gets home, hands and feet so cold it takes him a minute to undo the laces and kick off his Docs. He lets the water run hot while removing his lenses and stripping off his clothes, leaving it on the floor which is already strewn with several pairs of dirty socks and boxers, pyjama bottoms, and a jumper he recognises as John's. The water is scalding hot when he steps under the spray, but it doesn't warm him up, even when his skin turns an angry red. Shivering, he reaches for the soap, wishing for all the world that he was back home in Cornwall, taking a long bath while Mum made dinner.

He ends up standing in the shower for 20 minutes even after he has finished washing, the thought leaving the warmth of the shower not the least tempting. At last he turns off the water, does a half-hearted attempt at drying the floor with a towel, and secures another one (dry and clean) around his waist.

John is on his bed reading, earphones in and barely acknowledging him when Roger steps into the room. Stepping over one of John’s hobbit feet slippers, he passes his own empty closet and opens John's instead, not prepared to find nothing but a sock and a pair of distressingly short shorts in bright yellow.

“Uhm, John?” he says, but realises he probably can’t hear anything when the music sounding from his earphones is so loud Roger easily recognises it as ABBA. He throws the shorts at him. “John? Where are all your clothes?”

“Dirty,” John replies, having moved one earphone, “I think I have a pair of clean jeans somewhere, though. And a sock, but I was planning on wearing it myself if I can find the other.”

Roger looks back into the closet, then opens his own. It’s just as glaringly empty. “We should probably do laundry tomorrow,” he says, as much as he dreads the thought. John nods briefly and puts his earphone back in.

Beginning to feel a bit cold standing there in only a towel, Roger leaves the room in favour of raiding Freddie’s closet.

Upon entering his room, he quickly discovers that Freddie did mean it when he said he didn’t want Roger to borrow his clothes. Disbelieving, he gives the padlock on the closet doors a tug.

“Why?” he asks loudly, jumping when a windswept Brian appears in the doorway.

“Hi?” he says, red-nosed and hair a mess.

“I need you to tell me where Freddie keeps his key,” Roger urges, stretching his hands out towards Brian and almost accidentally flashing him when the towel around his waist loosens. He hastily secures it.

“I don’t know where it is,” Brian says, working a hand through his no longer close-cropped curls, “but I imagine he put a lock on for a reason. Something about you borrowing his clothes and he having to retreat it from under your bed along with dirty socks and underwear. He wasn’t happy.”

“But I need clothes! What am I gonna do tomorrow?”

“You could actually do your laundry.”

“That doesn’t help me now,” Roger says, pulling at the lock one last time before turning around to see Brian sitting cross-legged on the bed. He widens his eyes slightly, purses his lips just a little. “Unless I can borrow some of yours?”

“It’s much too large for you,” Brian says warily.

“I can borrow a pair of jeans from John. Between the two of us, we’ve got two pair of trousers, one t-shirt, and three socks, and none of them are even Christmassy.” He very badly needs John to do his laundry, because while his usual sock collection is fairly impressive, his Christmas socks are simply epic. Then because Brians looks like he needs more convincing, he gestures to the lower part of his body with a grin, “please? I'll let you have a peek?”

Brian scowls. "You're disgusting."

"What? You've chased dick since birth but you don't want to see mine?” Roger says, feigning offence, “honestly, what a kick in the balls."

Brian almost smiles at that one, but attempts to cover it by rolling his eyes. "Just take what you need and leave me alone.”

"Thanks, Bri," Roger says cheerfully, "I knew I could count on you!"

“But you have to promise to do your laundry tomorrow.”

“‘Course,” he says, having already opened Brian’s closet. It’s not as impressive as Freddie’s, who organises his clothes by colour and material, but Brian’s system is fairly neat, too ... Roger lets out a snort of laughter. “Do you actually fold your underwear?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Brian asks, as if the answer isn't obvious.

“Nothing,” Roger says, picking out an awful, brightly coloured sweater, “seriously though, this one? Where did you even get this?”

“If you’re going to insult my clothes, then feel free to leave,” Brian says, and Roger can just picture his face right now, eyes narrowed and mouth an unhappy line.

“Oh but it’s very stylish,” Roger says, putting on a pair of underwear before throwing the towel aside, “hey, wanna go shopping tomorrow?”

Brian doesn’t deign himself to answer that, and so Roger picks out a pair of almost decent and very comfy-looking pyjama bottoms, a wine red jumper that doesn’t look half bad, a shirt and a pair of underwear for John, socks, and another shirt which is most definitely Freddie’s and must have gotten there by mistake, before thanking Brian and leaving him to his readings or whatever it is he does when he is not working.

John leaves for his pub crawl with Freddie soon after, and Roger figures he might as well do his readings and get it over with. He then proceeds to procrastinate wildly for an hour or so, making the ultimate motivational playlist—Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen, Suzi Quatro and Aerosmith, some Blondie, and every hard-hitting, Tusk era, Lindsey Buckingham song—and playing four or five rounds of Candy Crush.

♛ ♛ ♛   
  


It's only half past nine when he finishes his readings and throws himself on his bed. He would be a right sad twat to go to bed this early, but he doesn’t want to join Freddie and John when they have already been out for hours.

Deciding to see what Brian is up to, he leaves the comfort of his bed and shuffles into the kitchen. He puts on the kettle, retreats Brian's Nasa mug and one of the tall, blue glasses from the cupboard along with two boxes of tea, one Earl Grey, the other the citrussy stuff Freddie brings home from God knows where. Humming along to the faint sound of music still playing from his room, he dumps the teabags into mug and glass along with a spoonful of sugar and milk for Brian, and has put it all away again by the time the water finishes boiling.

He only realises his mistake by the time he is halfway between the kitchen and Brian’s room. With a sigh of annoyance, he stops, holding both cups as far from his face as possible, wanting to smack himself for not taking off his glasses before making tea. He feels a bit of an idiot standing like this, but he figures it’s better than entering Brian’s room with fogged up glasses and tripping over something.

When he feels fairly confident that is not going to happen, he crosses the floor and pushes down the door handle with his elbow for the second time today.

"I made you tea," he announces, kicking the door shut with his foot. Brian looks up from where he is sitting on his bed with a book, propped up by pillows against the headboard and dressed in pyjamas already, a thankful smile instantly visible on his face.

“Hold this,” he says, handing Brian both teas and climbs onto the bed, taking off his glasses and putting them on the nightstand.

"The Martian Chronicles! Oh, I loved that one," he says once he has settled and got his glass back, noticing the cover of the book Brian has put down in favour of sipping his tea.

"Yeah?" Brian says, an amused smile on his lips, "why’s that?"

“It’s science fiction, what’s not to like?” 

“What an inspiring and insightful response,” Brian says, hiding his smile behind the rim of his cup.

“Ugh,” Roger says, “why do you always want an hour long talk on every book we’ve read? I liked that the characters and their actions were believable above all. I mean, what we see are only snapshots, so the author really has to make every word count, and he does—I think he describes the human race perfectly, which is both sad and a bit scary, but, well. It just moved me, I suppose. And anyway, it’s way better than Fahrenheit 451, couldn’t even finish that one.”

Brian, who up until now has listened with obvious interest and agreement, now looks so offended that Roger can’t help but laugh.

"You don't like Fahrenheit?" 

Roger blows on his tea. "I don't exactly dislike it, it was just a bit disappointing, I suppose. I had such high hopes after reading this one, and it's supposed to be a classic and all that jazz,” he says, waving a hand demonstratively, “it just didn't live up to my expectations."

"I see." Brian says slowly, like he’s considering exactly how many layers of diplomacy he needs to wrap his vehement disagreement in. 

“Of course it’s still relevant,” he adds hastily when Brian looks like he’s about to start on his soliloquy, pulling it out of his arse as he goes, "as we continues to dumb down education and, uh—”

“Yes?” Brian prompts, looking very amused.

“And I mean, the government are already spying on us, it’s not unlikely it’ll evolve, so. Still very much relevant.”

Brian actually laughs at that. “Good point.”

"You know," Roger says, settling more comfortably into the pillows, “you should read aloud.”

"I should, should I?"

"Yes, you've got a nice reading voice, and I've been reading all evening and I made you tea."

"A compelling argument," Brian says, picking up the book. "Any preference as to what I shall read?"

"The one with the guy who plants trees, Green Morning or something."

"All right."

As Brian starts reading, Roger puts down his tea and creeps under the covers, surprised as always by just how soft Brian's bed is, and feeling just a bit envious that him and John got the smaller room and only have room for twin beds. Then he figures it doesn’t really matter, because he is here now, and the warmth from covers and tea and the proximity of Brian's body makes him sleepy. He snuggles a bit closer to Brian, nose almost touching the thigh of his pyjamas, and it doesn't take long before he lets himself drift.

♛ ♛ ♛   
  


When Roger comes to, he is almost positive that it is morning. Either that, or the angry red behind his eyelids means that someone is holding a flashlight over his face. Which regrettably wouldn’t be the first time. 

Then comes a lazy drawl which Roger recognises as Brian’s, except Brian never sounds like that unless it’s weekend and he has got at least nine hours of sleep.

"Have you seen?" he says, "I've landed Roger Taylor in my bed."

Roger thinks that perhaps he should respond to that, but then John’s voice sounds, offensively flat. "What a catch."

It is possible that they keep talking after that, but if Roger is honest, he wouldn’t be able to recall a single word later. He does, however, register that the warm weight pressed against his cheek disappear, and he thinks he hears a chuckle follow his noise of protest. 

Then the bed dips down again, and he snuggles closer to warm body creeping under the sheets. He is certain his name is being called, but figures it’ll stop if he ignores it. 

"Roger, wake up."

Even through half-closed eyes, John doesn't look like he is feeling very well. "Did you have fun last night?" Roger asks, wincing when his voice comes out all hoarse and scratchy.

"It was all right," John says, closing his eyes, "Freddie bought me drinks, and now Bri's making me breakfast."

Roger perks up. "He is?"

"Hmm," John says, eyes still closed. "Promised to wake you."

Roger yawns. "I'm very much awake."

Now that John has mentioned it, Roger clearly hears Brian clattering around with pots and pans in the kitchen, and he wonders what he is going to make, pancakes dripping with syrup or scrambled eggs and bacon … 

John appears to have fallen asleep, and Roger nudges him gently. "John?"

"Hm?"

He means to ask John if he knows what Brian is making for breakfast, but John’s eyes seem to have trouble staying open, and the risk of having his question ignored is too great. Instead he points at the poster on the opposite wall.

"Have you noticed this?" he asks, shifting a bit to left and beckoning John close again. "If you lie right here, it looks like Jimmy Page is looking you right in the eye."

“Creepy,” is John’s unenthusiastic response.

“Or titillating,” Roger hints. John lets out a snort. “If you’re into that sort of thing, I mean.”

"I doubt he’s put much thought into it," John yawns. 

"Of course he has! He likes the whole—” Roger waves a hand, searching for the word, “voyeuristic thing.” 

“And I suppose he told you so,” John says, looking sceptic.

"’Course not, Freddie did."

John wrinkles his nose.

"Anyway, it makes sense, doesn't it? His attraction towards Page, I mean. It's the whole narcissistic thing—you're bound to be more attracted to someone who looks like you."

"Says who?"

"It's obvious—I mean, look at Brian—he thinks Jimmy Page is the best looking guy since, well, ever. He plays guitar, he's pale and spindly and long-fingered, got that dark, curly hair, and high cheekbones. Who else do we know who looks like that? Brian!" Roger says, because it’s pretty obvious. To further prove his point, he adds, "so, like, take the four of us. If two of us were to pair up, it would most likely be Brian and Freddie, simply because they look more like the other."

"Or maybe because they are both gay," John says, an amused smile now on his face.

“Well, that too,” he admits, “but you see what I mean, don't you? That's why Debbie and I would be the perfect match."

"I’m not having this discussion with you again,” John says, getting out of bed at impressive speed considering he was mid-yawn a moment before, “she’s too old, it’s creepy.”

“I don’t want to do her  _ now _ ,” Roger calls after him, getting out of bed himself, “although … she  _ is _ pretty fit for her age.”

“Not listening,” John says, already out of the door and with his hands coming up to cover his ears.

Roger takes off then, leaping onto an unsuspecting John’s back. 

“Oh god,” John groans, before he collapses on the floor, Roger tumbling off him.

“Ow,” he says, even though John took most of the fall.

A wonderful scent wafting in from the kitchen hits his nostrils just then, and he is up in a second, about to scramble towards it when John trips him and he is back on the floor. 

“You are such a pain,” John says, sounding out of breath.

“What on Earth are you two doing?” 

“Er,” Roger says, “getting ready for breakfast?”

“I see,” Freddie says. He seems fresh out of the shower, and except his slightly puffy eyes, he doesn’t look like someone who has been out drinking.

“How are you not hangover?” Roger asks, shifting slightly on the cold floor, uncomfortable but not so much that he would consider getting up.

“Bananas, coconut water, and vitamin B,” says Freddie lightly, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe breakfast is ready.”

“I swear he makes this shit up,” Roger says when Freddie has left. 

John gracelessly gets to his feet. “Coconut water has never sounded more unappealing to me than it does right now. Are you coming?”

“Right behind you,” Roger says, not moving. John leaves him then. 

♛ ♛ ♛   
  


After a long, indulgent breakfast, Brian leaves for work and Freddie goes back to Portobello Market, Roger promising to join him when he’s has finished doing his laundry. He figures it’ll take a couple of hours, tops, but once both laundry baskets and the chairs have been emptied and Roger has gathered another pile from under their beds, it becomes clear that it can’t possibly be done by one round. It’s also impossible to cross the room without tripping over the very large piles, something John unintentionally demonstrates when he tries to get to the door. Who knew they had this much clothing.

“Do we have to sort it into different colours?” Roger says from the safety of his bed, “what did we do the last time?”

“I don’t think there has been a last time.”

“That can’t be right, we’ve lived here for almost a year,” Roger says, but then he thinks about it, and perhaps it’s not too much of a stretch—both Freddie and John brings their laundry when they visit their mums, and if some of Roger’s clothes end up amongst it, John doesn’t mind and Freddie doesn’t notice, and their mums definitely don’t. It’s also not uncommon for them to borrow each other’s clothes, which makes it even easier to get out of laundry, because if yours have been borrowed, you demand they wash it, and if the other way around, it’s easy to slip it into the other’s hamper. Brian is the only one who actually knows how to work the washing machine and frequently gives them shit for passing it onto their mothers, but Roger did get him to do his once, so it’s not absurd to think he would do it again. True, he was absolutely piss drunk, and he still saw himself fit to rant about responsibility and adulthood, but the main point is that he did it. 

“I’m pretty sure we need a separate wash for underwear,” John says, scrunching up his nose as he reaches for a pair of boxers, “but I don’t think we can fill the machine with underwear only.”

“Brian?” Roger suggests, and John throws the boxers aside and picks up his phone from the floor. He puts in on speaker, and they listen it silence until Brian picks up after fifth ring.

“Yes?” he says, sounding only mildly annoyed.

“Hi Bri,” John greets, and Roger doesn’t know how anyone could be annoyed when it’s John calling, “we need your help with laundry. So, we figured we should divide it into different piles, yes?”

“Whites, colours, blacks, and towels, linens, and underwear. Read the tags, and don’t call me while I’m at work,” Brian finishes, and the line goes dead.

“Right,” Roger says, picking up the nearest garment, “this is both black and white, which pile does it go into?”

“Freddie’s hamper?” John suggests. 

When they have sorted all their clothes, Freddie’s pile, which consists of everything that doesn’t fit into the categories Brian mentioned, is almost as big as the blacks pile. Roger thinks they might have to sneak a few pieces into Brian’s as well, and maybe some under their beds. 

“Alright, let’s start with blacks,” Roger says, trying to gather the whole pile in his arms. He doesn’t succeed—he always thought himself a rather colourful person, but clearly he is wrong, because there are  _ a lot _ of black clothes. Or a lot in general, he supposes. 

John picks up the rest and follows him to the hall where the washing machine is. It’s a big, ugly thing, and Roger feels a little faint upon seeing all the different settings. 

“So, what, we just … put it in?”

“I think so,” John says, looking as much at a loss as Roger feels. 

Opening the machine proves to be another problem—it appears to be stuck, even when he uses both hands, and Roger is afraid he might break it if he pulls any harder.

Then John presses a conveniently labeled ‘On/Off’ button, and Roger almost falls on his butt when it suddenly opens. 

When he sends him a glare, the corners of John’s mouth lift in a smile that no doubt is supposed to communicate ‘consider this payback’. 

Roger looks back on the rows of buttons. “Okay, so. Daily cotton or daily synthetics? Delicates? Don’t think we have much of that. Anti odour? That must be a good thing, right?”

John shrugs. 

“This is your field! You should know how to do this. It’s electrical, right? So go … engineer it, or whatever,” Roger says, because really, if  _ John _ doesn’t know, how are ordinary people supposed to?

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Roger says, not usually ready to give up after such a short amount of time, but. It’s pretty difficult stuff, this whole laundry business. “We can’t call Brian—we can call Brian! It’s practically an emergency!” 

John looks like he is about to protest, but then thinks better of it. Roger has his phone out in a second.

“Hey Bri!” he greets, ignoring Brian’s less warm ‘ _ what?’ _ , “how’s work? You know, we’re having a bit of trouble—”

“Can’t it wait ‘til I get home?”

“But Bri, you made me promise to do laundry today, and we are both out of clothes; you can’t let us attend Tim’s friend’s thing without a stitch on.”

“I genuinely hate both of you,” Brian says. Always has trouble expressing his fondness, Brian does. Then he sighs, “all right, what’s the problem?”

“How do we start it?”

“Are your clothes in the machine?”

“Uhm,” Roger says, glancing at the clothes still on the floor from when he tried to open the door, “no?”

“That would be a start,” Brian says with thinly veiled impatience.

“All right, hold on,” Roger says, placing his phone on the washing machine before he begins filling it with clothes. He can almost  _ hear _ Brian rolling his eyes.

“Am I right when I say you didn’t look at the labels even though I told you to?” Brian says when Roger has announced he is done. 

Roger exchanges a sheepish glance with John. “Uh … Possibly, yes.”

“Okay, I’ll show you how to do it properly once I get home, for now you can go with Mixed. Have you filled it with detergent?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” he says, reaching for a random bottle, “but, like, do I just pour it into the drum?” he asks, puzzled. It doesn’t sound right. 

John takes the bottle from him and switches it for another one labelled DARKS. 

“There a small drawer in the top left corner,” Brian says, “fill the cap with detergent, pour it into the second compartment, and close it again.”

“Right,” Roger says, carefully following Brian’s instructions.

“Now turn the knob to 8 and press the start button,” Brian says, speaking quickly now, “et voilà! See you later.” And the line goes dead again.

“That wasn’t so hard!” Roger says, not able to help a grin forming.

“So you don’t mind doing the rest?” John asks as they walk back into the living room.

“Are you kidding? It’s still a lot of work.”

“If you win three rounds before the others get home, I’ll do the rest,” John says, waving a Wii remote.

Roger snatches from the coffee table and throws himself on the couch. “You’re on!”   
  


♛ ♛ ♛   
  


Many hours and a lot of laundry later, Roger fits himself into his best jeans, newly washed and tumble dried, cuffs them just enough to show off his creepers but not so much that the tattoo on his ankle is visible, and picks out two shirts to go with it. 

The others are in the living room watching The Two Towers, and Roger stops for a moment to appreciate a soaked Viggo Mortensen kicking orc arse. When the scene switches to something less interesting, he steps in front of the TV and holds up both shirts. 

"Okay, which of these will get me laid tonight?"

Brian cocks his head to the side as if regarding both but doesn’t offer an opinion, and John’s eyes simply glaze over, as they always do on such occasions.

He turns to Freddie, hopeful.

"Oh but the green one would look magnificent on Brian," Freddie says, snatching it from him and holding it up in front of Brian, "brings out your eyes, dear."

Roger smiles patiently. “I don’t think you heard my question.”

"Oh let him have it, it's not like it’ll lessen  _ your  _ chances," Freddie says. “And for the other one, you really shouldn’t wear it if you insist on rolling up your sleeves. The girls may fawn over your flower tattoo, but I assure you no one will bed you if you wear that colour combination.”

“I don’t think—”

“Let me help you,” Freddie says, removing a purring Ziggy from his lap, who immediately jumps onto John’s lap instead where it starts kneading. John looks like he would rather be anywhere else. 

The thing about Ziggy is that he really doesn’t like people—the exception being Freddie, of course, who claims to have a spiritual connection to him, and John, who strongly dislikes cats. He tolerates Brian, mostly because he’s the one who feeds him, but Roger he hates as much as any guest who dares enter the flat. Roger doesn’t mind too much, figures he can’t be well liked by everyone—at least he doesn’t take it personally like Brian, who, even after many pitiful attempts to win it over, still tries too hard.

“Roger?”

“Freddie, I really don’t see how it matters that the colour of my clothes and tattoos match,” Roger tries, trying to catch up with Freddie’s purposeful strides across the living room floor.

“I know you don’t,” Freddie says, looking through his newly washed clothes, “and it pains me.”

Roger suppresses a sigh.

“Here, try this one,” Freddie says, handing him a shirt almost identical to the other one, and Roger grudgingly puts it on, wondering if this is going to take as long as it did yesterday.

When Freddie has finally chosen an acceptable shirt to go along with jeans and shoes and skin, Roger rolls up the sleeves of his shirt so the cluster of coloured cornflowers on his left forearm is showing, because no matter what Freddie says, he's had much success with it in the past.

They leave soon after, all together for once, but then Freddie runs back to check Ziggy’s bowls and Brian, regrettably, to get his new selfie stick, gifted to him by the animal shelter he volunteers at last week for reasons unknown to Roger.

He knows, of course, that he should leave it be, that it makes Brian happy and relaxed if just for a short moment in his tragically busy life, but Roger swears he’ll throw it in the toilet the next time he finds a video of himself sleeping or Freddie eating carrots or John watching Mamma Mia on their Facebook page. He can't very well delete it, but he fears they might not be taken seriously, and really, he has to talk to Freddie about it.

When Brian insists they take a group shot, Roger doesn't bother to hide his sour expression.

♛ ♛ ♛   
  


To his credit, Freddie’s shirt pick  _ does _ help Roger getting laid. Of course it could also be his incredibly good looks and undeniable charm, but Roger is willing to give credit to both Freddie and his weird rules about colour combinations. Still, that is not an excuse for Freddie to keep pestering him when he’s clearly , er, busy.

“Why don’t you just give me your wallet, go do your thing, and afterwards you can both come find me and drinks will be on me?” Freddie says, like he's being reasonable.

“It’s not on you if you’re using my money,” Roger mutters, not knowing why he bothers. They had been  _ so _ close to slipping into the bedroom unnoticed. Trust Freddie to ruin that.

“I’ll pay you back.”

Knowing Freddie will keep bugging him about it until he gets what he wants, Roger relents, if only to shut him up. With a helpful hand from Dominique, his wallet is retrieved from his back pocket and lobbed at Freddie, who catches it with a grin and an "enjoy yourselves."

Of course, when they do finish—Roger feeling sated in a way he hasn't for a long time—Freddie is nowhere to be found, and then Dominique, perhaps tired, perhaps not really caring about finding Roger's friends, kisses him on the cheek and tells him goodbye. 

He can’t find John or Brian either —someone tells him they went home already, another that there had been talk about going to a nearby club. Doing his best to hide his annoyance, Roger says goodbye to the people he knows, and then leaves the house to find a tube station. It’s when he gets there 10 minutes later that he realises he left his Oyster card in his wallet, which, along with Freddie, is probably halfway across town by now. His phone is almost out of battery, and even if it wasn’t, the chance of getting hold of Freddie is minimal at best. John and Brian could be anywhere, and even though he could go back to the house and find someone to stay with, he doesn’t much fancy having to go through another four hours of drinking only to be able to kip on some stranger’s couch. With a kick to a lamp post and half a minute of cursing Freddie, Roger retrieves his earphones from his pocket, puts his phone on flight mode, and begins the walk home.

It takes him a little more than an hour to get home, and if he is completely honest, he doesn’t mind too much. It’s cold, yes, but he has his earphones in and hands buried in his pocket, and London looks best at night, the dark, velvet sky and the bright city lights.

The door is open when he enters the flat, but all lights are out, and he trips over a pair of shoes but doesn’t bother turning on the lights himself. He figures that whoever is home has gone straight to bed, but Roger doesn’t feel tired yet and makes a line for Brian's room, wanting to borrow his copy of The Martian Chronicles. He is still humming along to his music when he pushes the door open, impressed but very glad that his phone hasn’t run out of battery yet, but the sight that meets him makes him stop dead in his tracks. There, on full display on his bed, is Brian—naked, on his stomach, and with a blond guy Roger vaguely recognises on top of him. What must have been seconds feels like a lifetime as Roger stares into the stranger's eyes, a lifetime where they just keep fucking, their breathing heavy and the bed springs creaking, and Roger's eyes accidentally dart to where they are joined. Something like disgust coils tight in his stomach, and he barely registers Brian scrambling to—cover up, back away, reach for him, maybe, because he is backing out of the room, only pausing to grab his shoes before he flees the flat.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not the first time John has been abandoned for sex, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. The last time he saw Roger, he had a tongue down his throat and his hand up somebody’s skirt, and Brian, while a good deal more discreet, had obviously been chatting up some bloke. For a while John had been content to chat with Tim and a few guys from school, but when Freddie appeared and dragged him off to buy cigarettes, apparently having got hold of cash, he was more than happy to follow. It had been nice for awhile, too, but then a whole bunch of Freddie’s friends had arrived, and John had excused himself to go look for a fresh beer. When he came back, Freddie was nowhere to be seen.

The walk from the tube station seems longer than usual, due perhaps to the fact that the temperature has dropped to below freezing and he’s longing for the quiet solitude of his room. Pulling the sleeves of his pullover over his hands, he wills his tense shoulders to drop, distractedly wishing he had listened to his mum and invested in a warmer coat. 

When he finally reaches the flat, he almost collides with a blond guy on the stairs, and is further annoyed when his apology is ignored. 

Entering the thankfully warm hall, John kicks off his boots and throws his coat on the rack, his only thoughts being a hot cup of tea and a warm bed. He is pleased to find Brian in the kitchen, putting on the kettle just as he enters. At the sight of him, Brian's shoulders drop and his mouth works itself into a careful smile. 

“Hey,” he says. He is dressed only in pyjama bottoms, and looking — tired, definitely, and a bit worried, or guilty, for some reason, even though John can’t work out why. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Grateful, John nods and sits down at the table. He watches Brian flit about the kitchen, obviously still carrying some tension in his body, fingers lightly tapping on the countertop or tracing the edge of the tea box while the tea steeps. “Are you alright?” he asks at last.

Brian nods, a disarming smile quickly replacing the worried look in his eyes, almost like he'd been expecting the question. “Just a bit worried about school,” he says over his shoulder, opening the fridge to retrieve the milk. “What about Freddie? He didn't want to come home yet?”

“I couldn't find him,” John replies, allowing the abrupt change in subject. He watches as Brian pours milk in one cup and then moves on to the next, but then rights the bottle and puts it down a second before the first drop falls. “But I thought maybe Roger had returned. Tim informed me that he had left.”

Brian turns his back to him to put the milk back in the fridge. “Just me,” he says, voice sounding strange.

“Have you been here for long?”

Brian passes him his cup of tea and sits down opposite of John with his own. “Half an hour maybe.”

John nods, but then there’s not much to say after that — Brian seems oddly distant, and John is too tired to make an effort. He thanks Brian for the tea and retreats to his room.

He curls up in bed with Lord of the Rings, and reads by the streetlights outside until he's too tired to hold up the heavy book. Then he lies awake for a long time, wishing he could crawl inside that universe for a while. He didn't have to be a part of things — he could be a bird, or perhaps an ent. He'd like that, he thinks — would settle for being a huorn, or even a regular tree. Being bitter and not having to move much sounds like a perfectly nice way to pass time.

He finally falls asleep but jerks awake not long after at the sound of the door opening and Roger’s soft voice calling out, “John? Are you awake?”

He struggles to open his eyes, which feel like they are glued together. “Yeah.”

“‘m sorry if I woke you,” Roger whispers, which John finds a bit ironic, because if he really was sorry, he wouldn’t still be talking. 

“Where’d you disappear off to?” John asks, not because he especially wants to hear about Roger’s sexual escapades, but because he, oddly enough, has this … subdued air about him.

“Freddie has my Oyster card,” Roger says, sitting down on his bed instead of undressing, “had to walk home.”

John makes a face. Roger is, uncharacteristically enough, gnawing on his bottom lip, seemingly deep in thought. It only lasts for a moment — then he stands and abruptly begins undressing, and John doesn’t know what is  _ with _ everybody tonight. 

When Roger creeps under the sheets, still silent and not even offering his usual goodnight, John closes his eyes. He feels nauseous with lack of sleep, and curiously light-headed. He thinks he might throw up if he allowed himself to, but the bathroom is too far away for his sleep-heavy body, and he settles for breathing deeply 

After a long while, the nausea subsides, but he’s too awake now to go back to sleep. Roger seems to be awake as well, tossing and turning so much that when he speaks, John has got hold of his pillow and is just about to throw it at him.

“John?”

“What?” he grunts, lowering his arm.

“Do you think I’m homophobic?”

The question takes him by surprise, and there’s a beat of silence before he says, “er, no. Why do you ask?”

Roger hugs his pillow, voice so quiet John almost doesn’t hear. “I walked in on Brian having sex.”

John thinks he understands, now, but doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, and instead lets his silence urge Roger on.

“I felt so disgusted by it,” Roger says, louder now, “and I don’t — I don’t  _ want _ to feel this way, and I didn’t think, I never thought it would bother me, this is  _ Brian _ , and I just, I — ” 

He makes a helpless gesture and then falls silent, at a loss for words. 

“Roger,” John begins, unsure. Pauses. “I mean, walking in on someone you know is never a pleasant experience. Don’t you think you’re just a little freaked that you saw your friend engaging in, you know … those sort of activities,” he says, pulling a face.

Roger averts his eyes to the ceiling. “Maybe.”

The silence stretches on for a long while, and John, though initially wanting to help, grows impatient.

“What are you really afraid of?” he asks at last, knowing for sure that Roger isn't usually bothered by things like that. 

“When did you know?” Roger asks, not turning to look at him and completely ignoring his question.

“Know what?” he says with as much patience as he can muster, which really isn't much at this point.

Roger glances at him. “That you weren't, you know, straight.”

“It's not the same,” John says, feeling it necessary to point out. He thinks someone like Brian, or — considering the circumstances — Freddie, would be more fit to have this discussion.

“I know,” Roger says quietly, finally turning to face him. 

John stares at his dark shape for a long while, trying to figure out exactly what he is being asked to do. 

“I did it once,” Roger says, scrubbing a hand over his forehead, “jerked off to, uh, to Viggo Mortensen. But that doesn't mean — ” he stops abruptly, shifts under his sheets. “Sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“A little,” he admits reluctantly, “not because of — but. You know.”

“Yeah,” Roger says. Then, quietly: “I guess what I'm trying to do is convince myself that I shouldn't have a problem with it.”

“You can't help how you feel — ”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” Roger interrupts, voice catching, “it’s not okay that I feel so disgusted by it that it makes me want to throw up, and it’s not okay that I keep picturing it, or that I  _ hate  _ that guy, or —”

“But what you can do,” John says, raising his voice, “is to constantly work with yourself. You can’t expect yourself to just be fine with it. Things like that take time.”

Roger mumbles something into his pillow, and John strains to hear him. “What?”

Roger lifts his head to stare at him, defiant. “I said, I don’t have a problem with Freddie being gay.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks at last.

“I don’t know,” Roger says, sounding so small John feels bad for him. There’s a beat of silence. “John?”

“Hm?”

“Can I come in? Only it's terribly cold, and — ”

“As long as you bring your own duvet,” John says, silently amused. He scoots back against the wall so there's space for Roger and his mountain of pillows. 

“Thanks,” Roger says once he's settled, a warm weight against John’s side, “I'll try not to kick you out.”

John lets out a snort, very much used to Roger’s kicking and moving about. He doesn’t mind it much, really.

“You never answered my question,” Roger says.

John yawns. “Which one?”

“When did you know?”

“Why do you want to know?” John says, genuinely curious.

“Just do,” Roger says. He glances at him, “and it’s important to you, I imagine.”

“I don’t know if it is,” he says, still not used to Roger saying things like that even after all these years. “Alright. I only figured it out a couple of years ago — wasn’t even familiar with the term back then — and I just wanted to laugh, you know? I couldn’t believe I hadn’t figured it out before. I wasn’t particularly relieved, as I know some people are when they find out, it just made sense. All my life I thought people were exaggerating when they talked about sex. I remember thinking it wasn’t fair to objectify people by calling them ‘fit’ or ‘hot’, and I always insisted on calling someone attractive ‘pretty’ —”

Roger makes an amused sound. “I remember that. I found it so odd at first — I couldn’t believe you were concentrating on some bird’s face or hands or the slope of her back,” he scrunches up his face, and John can’t help but laugh, ”when the rest of her body was right there! Definitely not something I’d encountered before — I thought, here’s a bloke who’s got some wicked fetishes.”

John is full on laughing now, and it takes him a moment to catch his breath. “When have I ever said that?”

“I don’t know,” Roger says, waving a hand, “point is, your attention never is where it matters. You’re the only one I have left, no one else I know is interested in girls.”

“I’m sorry,” John says, amused, “I’ll have to try harder in the future. Anyway — eventually I learned what was generally considered attractive, and I mean, I can pick them out on the street if asked, but to this day I still have trouble wrapping my head around what exactly it is you people see that I don’t.

“I thought I would grow into it, that I would find someone where it made sense, but even though I’ve been in love before, I haven’t wanted to be in a relationship with them. I don’t know, maybe I’ve always known I couldn’t deliver what was expected of me. I know that sex is an important part of most people’s life, but the thought alone makes me uncomfortable. Being in a romantic relationship will inevitably lead to more, so it’s easier to just stay away from it entirely.

“But it's okay,” he says, ignoring the way Roger’s expression morphs into one of pity, “I’m not even sure I want to be in a relationship. I’m content to be by myself, and as long as I have you guys, I don’t need anyone else.”

“I understand that, I think,” Roger says, looking worryingly pensive, “but if you want to pursue a relationship, I don’t think you should hold yourself back because you worry sex might be a problem. I mean, sex is great, fantastic even, but I think — and don’t take my word for it, you know how little experience I have with committed relationships — that if you’re with a person you like, then it doesn’t really matter. One thing I can promise you for sure is that if you truly love and care about another person, giving up sex won’t even seem like a sacrifice.” 

The room is quiet save the odd passing car while John processes what Roger has said. He supposes it makes sense, but he’s not sure it's as simple as Roger makes it sound. The thing is, was he to get intimate with someone, one of them would have to sacrifice something, and who is to say it shouldn't be him? Neither thing seem particularly fair to ask another person to give up, but if it’s ever going to work, somebody has to. But he supposes it doesn’t matter much, because to ever be in a situation like that, he would have to ask someone out, and he don’t see that happening anytime soon.

“Are you still in love with him?” Roger asks quietly.

John feels his stomach drop. “Yes,” he says at last, carefully avoiding Roger’s eyes and distractedly trying to remember when he ever told him.

“He would do it, you know,” Roger says, nudging him gently, “he would give up sex.”

♛ ♛ ♛ 

The next morning, Roger gets up before the sun to go to work, but only after having slept through four alarms and being pushed out of bed when the insistent ringing becomes too much for John. 

Tired and groggy, John collects his book, a blanket, phone and earphones, and settles on the couch after his morning piss.  _ The King of the Golden Hall _ sounding in his ears, he curls up in a corner of the couch to continue where he left off, and doesn't stop before, many pages later, two hands grab his shoulders, making him jump violently.

“‘Morning, love,” says Freddie once John has removed his earphones, heart still racing.

“You scared me,” John says.

“I’m sorry darling, but you can’t just disappear into your own little world and leave me here,” Freddie says, flopping down on the opposite end of the couch, “I get so terribly bored.”

“Don’t you have class?” John says mildly, closing the book but with a finger still between the pages.

“Got cancelled,” Freddie sighs with an air of someone whose whole world seems against him. “You’re my only hope.”

“Well, I’m reading,” John says, opening his book again.

“Read to me, then,” Freddie says, sitting up straight, “you know I’ll never read it myself — this might be your only chance to enrich me with what you consider to be the prime of Western literature.”

John rolls his eyes, but it is not like he’s going to say no when Freddie willingly offers to listen. And at least he will be silent then. “Alright, alright. Is there a particular part you want me to read?” 

“Something nice,” Freddie says, stretching out on the couch. It isn’t much of an answer, but then he didn’t expect to get one at all. He marks the current page and then goes back some 300 pages. He thinks Freddie will appreciate the aesthetic of Lothlorien. 

“Wait,” Freddie says, just as John starts reading, “I need tea first. Make me a cuppa, will you, dear?” 

John gives him a lot and turns back to the book. Freddie sighs but doesn’t get up, only stretches to reach his sketchbook and pencils on the coffee table, the comforting sound of pencil on paper following a moment later.

After some time, he tires of reading aloud — it’s so  _ slow _ — and when he finally looks up again, sore from sitting still for so long, Freddie's idle sketching has stopped and he’s looking at John, eyes filled with what looks like a warm sort of contentment. A foot nudges his thigh, and Freddie stretches lazily, deep brown eyes still on him. "I was thinking, maybe you should make me lunch," he says, voice curiously sleepy-rough, like in the morning.

John snorts, amused. "You did, did you? What about breakfast?"

“It’s past noon!” Freddie says, showing him the screen of his ancient Nokia.

John checks his own phone, just to be sure. “Oh.”

“I’m  _ starving _ , dear,” Freddie says, having shrugged off his lazy warmth in favour of adding a touch of drama to his voice, “I’ll die, and you’ll be sorry to be left with a moody astronomer and a pretty boy with no impulse control. Try getting the band on its feet without me.”

“What do you want, Fred?”

“I want  _ food _ ,” he all but whines, “didn’t you listen? I’m  _ star _ —”

“What do you want to eat?” John interrupts.

"Stir-fry," Freddie says, brightening, “you make the best one. And I know we have spring rolls in the freezer.”

"Flattery will get you everywhere, apparently," John says, but he doesn't mind. He could do with some food as well. "If you keep me company while I make it."

"Of course," Freddie says smoothly, rising from the couch and holding out a hand for John to take. "And then we'll watch Rocky Horror, how about that?"

It doesn't sound too bad, and John follows him into the kitchen where he starts pulling out vegetables. He is not completely clueless it seems, but then John has always wondered whether Freddie is genuinely clueless when it comes to cooking, or just plain lazy.

Spring rolls in the oven and vegetables piled on the worktop, Freddie fiddles with the radio until he finds something to his satisfaction, and John begins cutting up onions and chili. 

“Can you peel the carrots, please?” he asks Freddie, who’s situated himself on the worktop and is currently dueting with Aretha Franklin.

“I thought my job was to lounge around looking pretty,” Freddie says, “it’s what I do best.”

“It’s done much faster if you help.”

“Alright, then. But I don’t wanna peel carrots.”

“I’m not sure I trust you around switched-on burners,” John says, turning down the heat on the already boiling noodles, “you can chop the cabbage and pepper?”

Freddie sighs dramatically but complies, hopping down from the worktop and taking the knife from John, who moves on to check on the spring rolls.

15 minutes later, food piled high on their steaming plates, Freddie is singing along to  _ Science Fiction _ , and John watches him instead of the movie, silently amused.

They have barely finished lunch before Brian comes home and joins them, leaving his bag on the floor and curling up in the armchair. John is suddenly very aware of just how little space the two of them take up on the couch, almost squished together as they are in one corner. Brian doesn’t seem to notice, and John carefully relaxes his body bit by bit. 

Halfway through the floor show, the front door opens for a second time, and John braces himself.

"Are you watching Rocky Horror without me?" comes Roger's indignant voice, and then he enters the room and almost sort of stumbles to a halt. John sneaks a glance at Brian, whose face is turned towards Roger but looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

“You were the one who left,” Freddie says, “you can’t expect us to wait on you.”

“I had class,” Roger says, sounding unsure, and pointedly not looking in Brian’s direction. Then he straightens, “and now I have readings. Excuse me.”

“What is wrong with him?” Freddie asks when Roger has left the room. No one answers him.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

“I miss going on dates,” Freddie says one morning, moodily poking at his yoghurt. “I want to dress up and go see a play and splurge on a fancy dinner, but the only thing I ever get are cheap handjobs in the back of some dingy bar.”

“Like you'd ever enter anything less than high-end,” Roger says around a spoonful of cereal.

Freddie sniffs, “my point is, my delightful self is worth more attention than a drunk one-night stand could ever offer, and I've decided I'm done with sex until I've been on a proper date.”

“Johnny’s never been, you should take him,” Roger says, like he's being helpful. John sends him a murderous glare, to which Roger merely grins back.

“Never been where? In a seedy bar? I should hope not,” Freddie says with obvious distaste, putting down his spoon in favour of taking a sip of his tea.

“Never been on a date,” John admits with some reluctance, figuring he better say something before Roger interferes further.

“ _ How _ ?” Freddie says, looking outraged.

When John only shrugs, Freddie very carefully places his cup on the table and looks at him with patience. “Honey, listen. I know you’re shy, but you’re also 19 years old, and this simply won’t do.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Roger snaps, glaring at Freddie over his coffee cup. Freddie ignores him.

“Let me take you on a date,” he says and leans forward, eyes insisting, “it’ll be fun! I’ll show you what you’re missing out on, help you set the bar.”

“Er,” John says, glancing at Roger who rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Okay,” he allows, watching with some interest as Freddie leans back in his chair and picks up his spoon again, a satisfied air around him, and John can’t help but wonder exactly what it is he has agreed to.

Freddie leaves for work soon after, trendy travel mug in hand, and John seizes the opportunity to talk to Roger.

“How’s it going with Brian?” he asks, voice low, aware that the guitarist is in the room next door.

Roger chews on his cereal, slowly. He swallows. “Not great. Really, really not. I feel so weird around him, like I don’t know him at all, and it’s like I’m expecting something to happen all the time.”

“And you don’t think talking would help?”

“I don’t even know why I feel that way,” Roger says, “I’m not about to try and explain it to someone who would definitely take offence when I don’t even have a proper reason.” 

“So you’re just waiting for it to go away?” he asks, hoping Roger can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

Roger rises from his chair and takes his bowl to the sink. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Just then, the door to Brian’s room opens, and Roger leaves the kitchen without a glance at either of them. 

John then decides that he really cannot deal with this, grabs his phone, and makes for the bathroom. He puts on his playlist of wonderfully cheesy 80s songs, undresses, and spends the next twenty minutes showering and singing along.

When he leaves the bathroom, squeaky clean and freshly dressed, the TV is on, but no one appears to be watching it. He moves to turn it off, but notices Brian on the floor in front of the couch, sitting cross legged and with laptop and notebooks spread out in front of him, a forgotten cup of coffee next to him.

“What are you watching?” John asks.

Brian looks up, startled, before glancing back at the screen. He looks at John openly. “It’s a documentary advocating a plant based diet,” he says, “it’s quite interesting. I was aware that vegetarians and vegans are generally healthier, but I had no idea it made this much of a difference. Apparently it’s possible to stop or even reverse most illnesses by switching to a plant based diet.”

“It sounds pretty wild,” John admits, lowering himself onto the couch, “but you should be good, right? You don’t eat meat.”

“I still consume lots of eggs and dairy products,” Brian says, eyes back on the screen.

“So you’re thinking about it? Going vegan, I mean?” 

“I have been for awhile,” Brian admits, “mostly because of ethical and environmental reasons, but this one’s a pretty good one, too.”

“Hm,” John offers distractedly, with some satisfaction thinking he may just have found a Christmas gift for Brian, “I think it’s a good idea. You could always try it out.”

Brian nods, “I thought about starting after Christmas—God knows mum goes through enough stress already without having to come up with new dishes for me—and throughout January, see if it’s something that makes sense.”

“I’ll look forward to you trying out new recipes, then,” John says with a smile, idly stretching.

Brian smiles. “When are you leaving for work?”

John checks his phone. “In about 40 minutes.”

“Okay,” Brian says, turning back to his books, “I should be done by then. I have a class at 11.”

John stays on the couch for a while watching Brian work, then remembers he didn’t finish typing up his own notes last night and reluctantly drags his unwilling body back to his room.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

Later that day they are all cramped inside their very small studio trying to finish two new demos. The first one is done in little more than an hour, but the second is Brian’s and he’s nitpicking something awful, which John doesn’t think their crappy equipment really lends itself to. Shuffling his feet, he idly glances about the room, ignoring Freddie and Brian’s raised voices. Someone — probably Roger — has drawn an angry smiley face in black marker on one of the numerous eggs trays covering the walls, and John thinks he feels a spiritual connection to it. 

“No, it still won’t work,” Brian says, “maybe if we slow down the drums?”

Roger, who for the past five minutes has done nothing but stare into space, scowls, but uncharacteristically enough, he doesn’t say anything, and Brian doesn’t seem to notice.

Freddie looks up, presumably surprised by the lack of response, but Roger is fiddling with his drumsticks and pretends not to notice. 

At Freddie’s questioning glance, John makes a face, and when the singer looks back at Brian, there’s a slight frown on his face.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Freddie asks when Brian has left for the bathroom.

“What?” Roger asks sullenly.

“You’re acting weird,” Freddie says, eyes narrowing, “especially around Brian.”

Roger looks like he’s about to say something, but decides against it and shrugs half-heartedly instead.

“Whatever it is, you can’t keep punishing him for something he doesn’t even know he’s done wrong,” Freddie continues, “it’s not fair to either of us. You create unnecessary tension.”

“Not participating in an argument is creating tension now?” Roger says, clearly still in a sulk.

“When have we ever made something good without arguing about it?” Freddie says, and even though it’s not directed at him, John thinks he makes a fair point. “And you know that’s beside the point. You haven’t spoken to him for days now, and it makes us all uncomfortable. Please sort it out. Talk to him, play him a song. Communicate.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Roger says, but his lips are twitching suspiciously. 

“If that’s the worst thing you can say about me, I shan’t be sorry.”

♛ ♛ ♛ 

“Are you ready to go?” Freddie asks, dark eyes glinting. He is dressed smartly, but not so much that John feels underdressed next to him, and he’s looking so good that John aches with it. Even though he ended up in a shirt and his best jeans, he hopes it’s clear that he’s made an effort — he’s even wearing identical socks, which he thinks Freddie will appreciate, even if there’s glitter on them.

He nods and closes the book he’s been trying to read for the past half an hour, feeling a bit like he’s about to throw up. Even though it’s strictly platonic and he  _ knows  _ this, it’s hard not to get caught up in what he can only assume are pre-date nerves.

They take the tube, which John finds quietly amusing because he knows how much Freddie hates it, even as necessary as it is. As they get closer to the centre, the compartment slowly fills up, and they end up squeezed together, Freddie pressed against the rail and John next to a woman in a too large fleece jacket that smells like feet. A middle aged man is leaning over Freddie, hands gripping the overhead handrail, breathing so loudly John suspects the whole compartment can hear. Freddie’s face is a picture of disdain, and John has to look away for fear of laughing out loud. 

“I hate public transport,” Freddie says as they get off the tube, tripping someone when he receives another elbow in the ribs. Horrified, but with a smile tugging at his lips, John curls a hand around Freddie’s elbow and leads him through the crowd of people.

“You are an absolute horror,” he says when they’re outside again and he feels safe letting go of Freddie, “you can’t just trip people!”

“It’s not like he fell,” Freddie says, pointed nose wrinkling slightly. 

John gives him a look, and Freddie sticks out his tongue. “It’s this way,” he says.

The restaurant is grand and rosy and a bit intimidating, the food small artworks served on big plates, and John doesn’t know why he expected anything less.

They’re seated in a comfortably secluded area of the restaurant, the chatter of the other guests barely audible. Just as the waiter leaves the table after having served them a third time, John shifts his legs, accidentally bumping into Freddie’s under the table. He moves his own per reflex, but Freddie’s stay where they are. Carefully studying his friend’s expression, and feeling his heart beat just a bit faster, John tentatively relaxes his legs so they come to rest comfortably against Freddie’s. 

“I just feel like we could so much better,” Freddie is saying, picking up the wine bottle and refilling both glasses, “there must be more to life than what can be found in dreary old London.”

“Is that what you want?” John asks, feeling surprised even though he probably shouldn’t, “to get out of London?”

Freddie laughs quietly. “I don’t think London’s the problem, really. It’s the thought of finishing uni with a useless degree, working a nine to five, and becoming one of those sad old twats who insists they used to play in band. It depresses me terribly.”

“I don’t think you will,” John says earnestly.

“I sure hope not!” Freddie replies, just as a waiter appears with another plate of tiny pieces of food, “thank you, dear.” 

John spears something pretty and green on his fork and studies it carefully. He can certainly see the appeal, and knowing that it speaks to Freddie’s sense of aesthetics, he enjoys it even more.

“Don’t you ever dream about the future?” Freddie asks, leaning closer.

“Not really,” he admits. Sure, he has a vague image of himself living somewhere quietly with wife and kids, but he is not sure that’s what he really wants. Perhaps if he’d never met Freddie—it would be easy to let music stay a hobby, a comfort and a small joy in the daily round. And he would enjoy it, he thinks, the quiet and the comfort of not having to worry about where to go or what to do, but even now, at 19 years old, he feels certain that as long as Freddie remains a constant in his life, that won’t be his fate. And he knows, deep down, that it doesn’t really matter what he thinks he wants—he is helpless but to follow this sparkling, bright person to wherever he wants to take him. 

He takes a breath, lifts his gaze to meet Freddie’s, and lets a tiny smile graze his lips, “but then I already know where we’re going.”

♛ ♛ ♛ 

“It’s a twenty minute walk, but we can take the tube if you prefer,” Freddie offers through the scarf covering the lower half of his face once they’re outside again. He offers John one of his gloves, and John smiles and accepts it gratefully.

“I don’t mind the walk,” he says. A slight headache has begun forming in the left side of his head, and he figures the fresh air will do him good.

Freddie nods and hunches his shoulders as if to brace himself. “I think it’s this way,” he says, but turns on his heel a minute later to walk in the opposite direction. “Did you like the food?”

John nods. “Especially the fish and the venison and the dessert,” he says, and then screws up his nose, “I did not like the sea urchin. It tasted alright, but it was a bit odd.” 

He can’t see Freddie’s mouth, but his eyes crinkles at the corners, and he says, “I should’ve known.”

John pauses for a moment, glad it feels so natural, this, not at all forced like he had feared, what with formal settings and fancy clothes. Freddie is still Freddie, and there’s no need to try to impress.

It soon becomes apparent that Freddie isn’t taking him to see a play like he had originally talked about, but rather the ballet, and John suddenly feels very underdressed. When he voices this, Freddie bumps his shoulder against John’s. “Relax,” he says, “you look fine.”

When they have handed over their coats in the cloakroom, Freddie insists on treating him a glass of champagne. When he protests, Freddie just looks at him for a long time, like he cannot believe he is saying this. “You should expect all this on a first date,” Freddie says with much patience, “it’s only what you deserve.”

“Is that what you do?” John asks, amused.

Freddie gestures with his glass. “Of course.”

“I feel bad for every poor sod who dares take you on a date,” John laughs, “so if it’s a picnic in the park, you’ll just get up and leave? Or do you take pity on him?”

Freddie rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

“I never know when you’re joking about stuff like this,” John admits. Freddie just smiles.

Their seats are on the second level, right in the middle, and John worries that they’ve cost a small fortune. There are a lot of old people, which he supposes he should have expected, all dressed up their best clothes. Freddie is leafing through the supplied program, directing his murmured comments at John like he has any idea what any of it means.

By the time the light is turned down and the conductor has got his round of applause, the throbbing in John’s head has worsened. He tries very hard not to mind it and concentrate on the show before him, but as the minutes pass, it become increasingly hard to. By the second break he just wants to crawl out of his body and leave it there to rot, and he thinks he may be about to throw up.

Freddie is talking about pas de deuxs and ballabiles, which John thinks may have something to do with ballet, but could just as well be something he makes up as he goes. Then he talks about the costumes, and John nods along even though he can’t remember what they looked like for the pain in his head. 

“You’d think I came for the pretty dresses or the fit dancers, but the whole thing is just magical, like being in a forest full of fairies,” Freddie sighs, then stops abruptly when he looks up. “Are you all right?”

“Uh,” he says, embarrassed, “got a bit of a headache, but — ”

“You should’ve said something,” Freddie says, brown eyes deep with concern, “I’m sorry I just went on and on — when did it begin?”

“Not too long ago,” John says, allowing himself to be steered away from the crowd, “half an hour, I think. Bit hard to keep track of time.”

“Do you want to go home? I can get us a cab?”

“It’s alright,” he lies, squinting against the strong light, “it’s not that bad.”

Freddie gives him a look.

“The tube’s fine,” John concedes — he at least doesn’t want Freddie to spend anymore money on him than he already has tonight.

Freddie is quiet for a second, then seems to spring into action. “Alright. Come on, love, Covent Garden’s just around the corner.”

John nods, comforted by Freddie’s hand on the small of his back.

The ride is the longest in his life, and the only thing stopping him from curling up on the floor of the compartment is Freddie’s presence and his string of comforting words. The first 10 minutes they are standing, squeezed in a corner and almost touching a sullen looking couple, which John really cannot deal with. The crowd thins out at last, and John sinks down on a nearly vacated seat.

“Still as bad?” Freddie asks, voice low.

John tries to nod but can’t for the pain in his head.

“Oh honey,” Freddie says, rubbing a hand over his thigh, “only twenty more minutes, then we’ll get you a couple of painkillers and get you to bed.”

John can’t get himself to reply, but he takes comfort in the words, and allows his heavy, aching head to drop to Freddie’s shoulder.

Brian is at the station waiting for them, nose buried in his scarf and shuffling his feet. “I have water and rizatriptan,” he says when they come within earshot, carefully pronouncing the last word. He retrieves pills and a bottle of water from his large coat pockets and hands it to John, who gratefully accepts them. 

Freddie and Brian chat quietly on the way back, and John is glad they don’t expect him to participate, focused as he is on sleep and nothing more.

The flat is quiet save for the hiss of the shower, but much too bright, and John steers towards his bedroom, turning off all light and creeping under the sheets as quickly as his poor body allows him to. A minute later, Freddie appears in the doorway with a gentle knock on the half-closed door.

“Just wanted to say goodnight,” he says, sitting down at the edge of the bed and making John feel like a small child.

“Thanks for taking me on a date, Fred,” John says, “I had so much fun. And I’m really sorry I ruined the last part of the evening.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. But I hope you’ll go with me some other time, see if we can get you through the whole thing without having to take pills for it,” Freddie adds with a smile.

“Only if you allow me to pay this time.”

Freddie’s eyes crinkles. “Get some sleep,” he says, smoothing the hair from his forehead with a wonderfully cool hand. Eyes soft, he leans over John’s body, his face getting impossibly close. John’s heart slams against his ribcage, and for a second, he fears that he actually may die. Then Freddie’s warm lips press against his forehead, lingering for an agonisingly long second before he straightens and with a last smile leaves John with his racing thoughts. 


	5. Chapter 5

The lecture hall is absolutely freezing, but the guy seated three rows down from Brian doesn’t appear to notice. While most of the students, including Brian himself, are dressed warmly, some even with blankets around their shoulders and two pairs of knitted socks, this guy is wearing only a t-shirt and cuffed jeans that leave the lower half of his calves bare. Brian doesn’t know what he’s doing here anyway — to his knowledge, the guy has done nothing but play Tetris the entire lecture. 

As if feeling his gaze, the boy turns around, and Brian, guiltily, snaps his attention back to the professor. It’s one of his favourites, a tiny, well dressed man with a long beard and a surprisingly deep voice, and whose offer of an expedition to Tenerife Brian turned down this morning. 

Feeling the anxious thoughts creep up on him again already, he exits OneNote and logs into his university mailbox to skim through the sent email for the third time today. He’s certain he could have worded it better — he was up all night, agonising over it to the point where Freddie threatened to make him sleep on the couch if he didn’t settle, and still it doesn’t sound right. Any excuses he might have been able to come up with he has kept to himself, fighting back his instinct to apologise profusely and try to justify his decision. He knows that his professor likely doesn’t care about anything other than his not going, and that really, he has been trying to justify it to himself.

He’s not sure if it was the right decision — he doesn’t feel the relief he hoped he would, and even though he tries to tell himself the opposite, he knows the decision wasn’t really his. It would make his parents immensely proud to see him go, but he also knows that the band, his friends, would feel let down if he took off right after their first real tour. And he does want to make music, he really does — more than anything — but he also likes his study, and he doesn’t view it as work as he knows the others, especially Roger, does. 

But if the decision is not his own, does that even make his reasons legimite?

His eyes are drawn to the blond guy again. He has paused his Tetris playing to retrieve a pair of tangled earphones from his bag, and Brian watches with fascination as he attempts to untangle them while simultaneously drinking his iced coffee. Miraculously, he succeeds, and plugs the earphones into his computer and opens Netflix even though there are only ten minutes left of the lecture.

On impulse, Brian opens up Facebook. To quell his guilt, he reminds himself that he’s done a lot of preliminary work, and anyway, he’s recording the lecture. Roger is online, and Brian sends him a quick message asking when he’s done — he left for uni while Brian was in the shower this morning, and Brian can’t imagine him staying on campus for longer than necessary.

Roger still hasn’t replied when his lecture is over, and he waits around for awhile after, reluctant to go outside and rather wishing for some company. Caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice professor Harrison approaching him before his name sounds in that deep voice.

“I must say I’m sorry to hear you’re not going,” he says when Brian turns to him, “you’re without doubt the best fit I could think of.”

“I’m sorry I can’t go,” Brian says, his hand coming up to scrub at the back of his neck, “I am beyond flattered by the offer, and it just about kills me that I can’t. I truly am sorry that it took me so long to get back to you, I hope you’re able to find a replacement.”

Harrison regards him for a moment, nodding slightly, and Brian hopes with all his might that he won’t ask for an explanation.

It seems to work, because he sticks his hands in his pockets and says, “I suppose you have your reasons for not going, but if you should change your mind — and I sincerely hope you do — the spot will be open until sometime in January.”

“Thank you,” Brian says, surprised and regretful, “but I’m afraid I won’t.”

His professor must’ve spotted someone behind him, because he claps him on the shoulder and says, “sorry, boy, I better get going. You think about it, now. And good luck with exams!”

“Thanks,” Brian says feebly, watching him leave and feeling even more lost than he did before.

He adjusts the bag slung over his shoulder and checks his phone again, but the screen remains stubbornly blank. With a sigh, he pockets it and winds his scarf around his neck, bracing himself for the cold. 

As soon as he steps outside, he wishes he could go back inside, but he buries his hands deep in his pockets and trots on against the icy wind. A combination of the wind quite literally forcing him to the left and spotting Daniel further ahead, he ends up at the bus stop just as number 49 arrives, and before he can think about it, he finds himself on the bus, squashed between two elder ladies. He attempts to untangle his earphones, almost knocking one of the ladies over when the bus swerves. The Who help him block out the rest of the journey, and on the tube he’s lucky enough to get a seat and do some reading.

His mood lifts when he spots the old house, the fence decorated with Christmas lights and garland on the door. A smile on his face, he lets himself into his parent’s house using the spare key and lets the comforting scent he can only describe as ‘home’ wrap around him.

He hears bustling from the living room, and a moment later, mum appears in the hall. “Brian! Is anything wrong?”

“Hi mum,” he says, trying the best he can to maintain eye contact as he bends down to untie the laces on his boots, “nothing’s wrong, just thought I’d drop by.” 

He hangs his coat on the rack and hugs his mum hi. “What a nice surprise, love. Do you want tea? I have a bread in the oven.”

“Sounds good,” he says, only just noticing how hungry he is. As much as he loves living on his own, there’s something magical about coming home to clean surroundings and homemade meals. 

“Dad’s not home yet, but he shouldn’t be long,” mum says as he follows her to the warm kitchen, “how’s your day been? You look a bit tired.”

“It’s been all right,” he says, watching as mum scuttles about, preparing tea and checking on the bread, “the heat in the audience is still off though, so that’s a bit annoying.”

When mum turns around, he instantly regrets mentioning it. “Are you wearing enough layers? It’s especially important to keep your feet warm, you know. You can’t walk around in those thin socks, however cheap they may be. What about the ones I made you? Do you need more?” she frets, “I also bought you some more vitamins. With an immune system like yours, it’s important to — ” 

“Mum,” he says, exasperated even though he knows she means well, “stop buying me things! I have more than enough vitamins already, and my boots are warm enough that I don’t need thicker socks.”

“I’m sorry, love, but you know I worry about you.”

“I know,” he says, softer this time, “but I can take care of myself.”

Mum hands him a steaming cup of tea, expression displeased. “You’ll get sick.”

“I always do,” he says, blowing on his tea to hide a smile. 

Mum rolls her eyes and shoos him away. “Go lay the table.”

Brian puts down his tea and complies, reaching into the kitchen cabinets to retrieve plates and an extra cup for dad. He inhales deeply the christmassy scent of spruce branches and oranges with cloves when he enters the living room, and quickly lays the table before surveying the room. It’s his first Christmas away from home, and even though he’ll be home for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, it feels a little strange not to have helped decorate. He comforts himself with the fact that they haven’t got a tree yet; even though he is 23, a part of him is reluctant to give up traditions like this one. He thinks mum has done a well enough job considering—the nutcracker is on the coffee table along with a bowl of walnuts, and Brian’s old and well-loved Christmas stocking is up even though he is definitely too old for that. Elves are lined up on the bookshelves, the candles are lit, and the god-awful reindeer pillows have replaced grandma’s knitted on the couch. 

He hears dad’s voice then, and he goes to greet him, accepts a hug and answers questions about school. A small part of him hurts the whole time, because he knows dad would love for him to go, and he hasn’t even told them, but he shoves it far back in his mind to worry about later. 

Throughout the afternoon, he eats so much of the newly made bread between stories of work and school and current projects that he has to pass on the offer of staying for dinner. He still needs to type up his notes from today’s lecture, and anyway, three and a half hour are a suitable amount of time to spend with his parents, though of course he doesn’t tell them that.

When he returns home, exhausted from school and his mother’s inquiries, he's surprised to see that the flat looks nothing like it did earlier this morning. He puts the tin full of gingerbread men (which he  _ hates _ ) from mum on the kitchen table and warily looks around. The flat, full of crap as always but depressingly devoid of Christmas decorations, now looks like Santa has thrown up all over the living room. 

“What happened here?” he mumbles, and John’s head, previously hidden by the tall backrest of the armchair, appears.

“Hi,” he says, “looks different, yeah? I told my mum I wouldn’t be home before Christmas. The package arrived today.”

“She sent you all this stuff?” Brian asks, feeling faint upon thinking how expensive sending it must’ve been.

“Not all of it,” John says, “we made some ourselves as well, Roger and me. And earlier today we went by the Salvation Army **,** got a lot of stuff there.”

Brian nods like it makes sense and lets his tired body slump onto the couch. John peers at him for a moment but soon returns to his book. He thinks he should finish that song he’s been working on for some time but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to move his body anytime soon. He feels  _ exhausted _ , and he hasn’t even been to work today. That he thrives under pressure and quickly gets bored without work is a story everyone, including himself, has been telling him for years, but now he wonders when being tired all the time became the default. 

Then he feels ungrateful, because he is so privileged in so many ways, it’s just that it’s winter, so of course he’s tired, and maybe he should start taking D-vitamin once in a while like mum tells him to.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

"You have to tell me now,” Freddie says from his bed, newly filled glass of wine in his hand, “ _ what _ is going on between you and Roger?"

Brian looks at Freddie from where he’s hanging with his head upside-down. "What?"

Freddie licks wine from his lips. “Why are you acting so weird around each other?”

It’s a strange question to ask, Brian thinks, and wonders if he has missed something. “We're not,” he says, sitting up in bed again and reaching for the wine. Sure, there had been a bit of awkwardness after Roger walked in on him, but that was to be expected. He doesn’t think they’ve been acting particularly weird around each other after that. 

“Okay, Roger is acting weird around you.”

Brian tries very hard to see Freddie’s point but doesn’t succeed. “How?”

“What do you mean, ‘how’?” Freddie asks incredulously, “he didn't say anything when you criticised his drum part, for one.” 

Brian thinks he remembers that, but hadn't thought anything of it at the time. “I didn't criticise him,” he says pointlessly, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with Freddie’s inquiries, “and anyway I was right, wasn't I?”

Freddie ignores his question. “When did you last spend time alone together?”

“Probably last weekend,” Brian says after a moment’s thought, “when you and John went to that party.”

Which is, if he’s honest, a fairly long time considering they not only go to the same university, but also live together.

“You seemed fine the next day.”

“Yeah,” Brian says, idly swivelling the wine in his glass for a moment before putting it down on the floor. He tries to remember what he’s been doing for the past week. School and work have of course taken much of his time, especially now that exams have started, and Roger has been the same. Probably. 

“It’s not that strange, is it?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

“It’s a little strange,” Freddie says, “you don’t know what happened?”

Brian twists his mouth in feigned thought as it occurs to him that Freddie doesn’t even know. “Perhaps it has something to do with him walking in on me getting plowed..."

"Brian!" Freddie says, expression torn between what looks like shock and a little bit of pride. 

“Well, I was,” he says, amused.

Freddie peers at him over the rim of his glass. “It was about time.”

Brian nods the best he can with his head resting on his folded arms. He reaches for his glass on the floor.

“I miss sex,” Freddie sighs.

Brian snorts. “You exaggerate. It's been, what, four days?”

“Five,” Freddie replies with feigned misery.

“Then call someone.”

“I can't,” Freddie says, “I’ve become a celibate.”

Brian laughs, but Freddie doesn’t. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Freddie says, and actually looks it, too, “I want to try dating again. If I continue to go looking for casual sex, then that's all I'll get.”

“Well I'm happy for you,” Brian says, frowning, “but you don't actually believe all that, do you? That you attract what you — ”

“Of course I do,” Freddie says, tone sharp.

“By that logic you would attract a sexless relationship,” Brian says, frowning at his empty glass, “that's ridiculous, Fred.”

“You're one to talk,” Freddie says, “you don't kiss on the mouth for more or less the same reason.”

“That's completely different,” he says, “I don't starve myself off sex.”

“No, you starve yourself off intimacy.”

They glare at each other for a long moment until Freddie’s face softens into a smile and he rolls his eyes. 

“Look at us, fighting like old harpies already,” he laughs, “now tell me the story, I must know everything!”

Brian rolls his eyes but complies after a refill. He goes for the short version first, but Freddie insists he go back and fill him in on the details, and so he does, tells the story from beginning to end, protesting only when Freddie asks him exactly what position they were in.

"So what am I going to do with Roger?" Brian asks at last, watching as Freddie catches the last couple of drops of wine.

"Well, the polite thing would be to send him an invite beforehand the next time," he says with a grin, ducking his head when Brian lobs his pillow at him.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

It’s the day after his talk with Freddie that Brian really starts to notice just how weird Roger is acting around him. He can’t for the life of him understand how he hasn’t noticed before — it’s not even that he doesn’t strike up conversation as usual, it’s that Brian starts missing the friendly touches which are a part of every interaction Roger takes part in to the point where he is so skin hungry that it just about drives him crazy. He doesn’t know how to ask for it, not even from John or Freddie, and Roger leaves the room every time they end up alone together. 

When Brian is doing the dishes the next day, having caved once again even though he promised himself to wait for one of the others to do it this time, he notices Roger standing at a polite distance with an empty bag of crisps in his hands, waiting for him to move out of the way so he can throw it out. Usually, there would be a hand on his hip gently pushing him to the side to make him move from where he is blocking the trash can under the sink, but now Roger barely looks at him, and Brian feels a flash of annoyance.

He doesn’t say anything, just clenches his jaw, turns up the music in his ears, and focuses on being bitter instead of pondering why open-minded, sex positive Roger is suddenly avoiding him.

When the kitchen no longer looks like it could attract rats and various fungi, Brian dries off his hands and runs a hand through his hair. He’s in dire need of a haircut, but none of the others have caved yet, and damn it if he’s going to be the first. His eyes land on the tin of biscuits he’s been avoiding but the others certainly haven’t, and he’s reminded that he once again has forgot to eat. A quick look in the fridge confirms his suspicions that no one has been grocery shopping lately, but after a search through the kitchen cabinets, he finds a few slices of John’s gross raisin bread and an almost empty jar of peanut butter. Chewing on his sandwich, he looks to John and Roger who are sitting cross legged on the living room floor, a mountain of wrapping paper and colourful ribbon and six failed attempts at ribbon stars. They are both wearing Christmas sweaters and matching socks, and Roger's record player is in the floor, easily within reach, along with the few Christmas singles he owns. When Brian removes his earbuds, they are singing along to _ Last Christmas  _ with reckless abandon, and he promptly puts them in again. It’s a little early to be wrapping presents, he thinks, but figures they are making up for that first week of not dedicating their lives to the holidays. A a bit of a loss for what to do, he looks around the room until his eyes land on the kitchen table, and, figuring he might as well be productive, he grabs pen and notepad and heads for the quiet of the studio.

♛ ♛ ♛

“Anyone want tea?” Brian asks, hand hovering in front of the cups. Roger’s gone off to see some friends from uni, and John and Freddie have settled around the coffee table for a round of Scrabble. 

John looks up from arranging his letters. “Are you making a pot?” 

“I can if you agree on something.”

“Earl Grey?” John suggests, and Freddie looks up and nods. 

Brian brings cups and biscuit tin to the table and arranges his own tiles while the tea steeps. Freddie passes the bag around, and they each take a tile to determine who gets to start the game. Brian gets a Z, so it’s obvious it won’t be him, and gets up to fetch the tea.

The last of mum’s dreaded gingerbread men are consumed in no time by John and Freddie and washed down with scalding hot tea. What follows next is an enjoyable 40 minutes of playing — Brian starts off badly with only vowels, but manages to get rid of four of them when he spells ‘aerie’. Much time is spent arguing over whether or not ‘snuck’ is a word, but eventually they decide that it isn’t, much to John’s chagrin. 

Brian returns from the bathroom just as Freddie puts another tile down and announces that it gets him 76 points. Knowing his tendency to make up new words, Brian double checks, and quickly spots what he thinks is exactly that. 

“‘Fa’ is not a word, Fred.”

“Of course it is,” Freddie says, “do, re, mi,  _ fa _ , sol, la, ti.”

Brian picks up his cup. “Tones don’t count.”

“It’s in the Merriam-Webster,” John says, showing the screen of his phone.

“Really? You’re on his side?”

“It’s not about sides, it’s about you being sore about me getting 76 points by putting down two tiles,” Freddie says with a self-satisfied smile.

“Whatever,” he says, and Freddie laughs.

He surveys his tiles, chagrined that he can’t spell the word he wanted anymore, but looks up when Freddie speaks.

“Deaky, love?” he asks, trying to sound casual and burning a lot of calories on it. “You wouldn’t know what’s gotten to Roger?”

John studies his tiles very intently. “No,” he says at last, reaching for the last gingerbread man and stuffing it into his mouth as if trying to prevent himself from saying more. Brian almost laughs out loud.

“I just want to help,” Freddie says, hand lightly touching John’s arm. John glances at it and demonstratively presses his lips together. “Brian deserves to be in the know, doesn’t he?”

Brian keeps quiet, interested to see where this is going, but just as John opens his mouth to speak, a key is put in the lock, and Brian doesn’t think he’s ever seen him looking this relieved. After locking and unlocking several times, the door opens, followed by sounds of Roger stumbling about in the hall. They all exchange glances.

“Hello, dear,” Freddie says as Roger flops down on the couch. 

Roger makes a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile, and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Brian tries to focus on coming up with a word, but ends up staring at the board instead. He looks at Freddie and John, and they seem just as uncomfortable. Just as Brian opens his mouth to suggest they call it a night, the two of them share a look and promptly abandons the Scrabble board, and with cheery good nights they disappear into their separate rooms.

Brian glowers at their retreating backs, silently cursing them for being such traitors, and crosses out one of Freddie’s larger scores in spite.

Roger still hasn’t said anything, but Brian can feel his eyes on him, and he hurries to tidy up the table, eager to escape the uncomfortable situation. 

Once the game has been put away, he gets up to bring the cups to the sink, and though he really, really wants to, he can’t just leave without a word. He stops in front of the couch. “Alright there, Rog?” 

Roger looks up abruptly, gives himself a little shake, and focuses his eyes on Brian. “Yes,” he says, lifting himself off the couch and almost toppling over if not for Brian’s hand shooting out to steady him. “Thanks,” he mumbles, very intently looking straight ahead. Brian wonders if he is going to be sick.

“Why don’t we get you to bed?” he asks, carefully letting go of Roger’s shoulder. Immediately, Roger begins swaying dangerously again, and he grips Brian’s arm. 

“‘M sorry I’ve been a dick,” he rushes out. 

Brian blinks. He doesn’t particularly care for Roger’s drunken apologies, but he really wants to go to bed, so if forgiveness, however feigned, is enough to ease his conscience so much that they can both go to sleep, Brian figures  he at least can give him that. 

He nods to show he accepts the apology, but can’t bring himself to say anything.

“I’m not against it, you know, you being with other guys,” Roger says seriously, but it’s ruined by his slightly slurred speech, “it’s very healthy, I think, expressing one’s...” he trails off, looking for a second like he’s searching for a word to finish the sentence, but then gives up and settles for a useless hand motion, and Brian feels torn between exasperation and amusement. 

“I understand that,” he continues and leans closer, and Brian really wants to take a step back, but then Roger’s hand curls around his elbow. It all happens very fast then: Roger gives his elbow a yank that feels much stronger than it really is and brings his face close to Brian’s, and even though his brain has trouble catching up, Brian’s reflexes certainly don’t, and he pushes him away, harshly, before anything can happen. Roger stumbles back, and for a second Brian thinks he’s going to end up on the floor, but he catches the corner of the couch instead and falls onto it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps, anger crackling like electricity below the surface of his skin.

Roger stares up at him, visibly stunned, and as sudden as his anger, Brian is hit with a strong urge to break down and cry, but he pushes right past it, puts himself into Roger’s space and snarls,  “that was  _ not  _ okay.”

Roger blanches, doesn’t even attempt to defend himself or offer an explanation, and Brian hates him for it, hates that he doesn’t feel like he even  _ knows  _ Roger anymore, that he’s just sitting there and taking it. “Say something,” he says, forcing the words out without his throat closing up, “you can’t just ignore me all week and then kiss me, you owe me an explanation!”

“I don’t have one,” Roger says and shifts away from him. Brian straightens at once. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s not good enough!” he snaps, turning away from Roger so he doesn’t have to look at him and feeling near hysterical with the absurdity of the situation. Unhelpfully, his mind supplies him with images of Roger’s awkward looks and hurried exits whenever Brian entered the room throughout the week, and he whirls around again, mind whirring. “What have I done? Is it because I took it up the arse? Are you really so full of bullshit that — ”

“No!” Roger says emphatically, “I don’t — god, I don’t care about that, I — ”

“What? What is it then? Because to me it looks like that’s exactly what you care about.”

Roger looks at a loss for what to say, and Brian stares at him, willing him to say something, anything at all. He looks pathetic, still sitting on the couch with flushed cheeks, the stench of alcohol and old smoke nauseating. Roger opens his mouth as if to speak but snaps it closed a second later, which to Brian speaks fucking volumes.

“Right,” he bites out, “good to know how you feel.”

“No,” Roger says feebly, and Brian can hear him struggle to get on his feet, but he’s already turned away and is stalking towards the bathroom. “Brian…”

He resists the urge to slam the door, insteads locks it and strips off his clothes. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, just steps under the spray of water and turns up the heat as far as he can stand it. He can’t seem to finish a single thought as he scrubs viciously at his red skin, can’t seem to process the feelings hurt and betrayal. Distractedly he wonders how it’s possible for his body and head to feel numb even with his mind racing like this, but soon he forgets about that thought, too.

He doesn’t know for how long he’s in the shower, just that when he passes through the living room, Roger is gone and he doesn’t feel the least bit better.

♛ ♛ ♛ 

Brian snaps awake the next morning to the sound of Bizet blaring from Freddie’s tablet and groans into his pillow. Freddie, thankfully, shows him mercy and switches it off, hopping out of bed and opening his closet doors wide. 

“Big day today,” he says lightly, wrapping himself in an expensive looking kimono, and Brian still hasn’t figured out how he can afford things like that. “I hope you and Roger resolved whatever issues you had. Need you to be on your best behaviour.”

Brian glares at him and pulls the duvet over his head. He doesn’t want to think about last night ever again, doesn’t want to feel like he did then, hurt and betrayed and used. It makes him sick to think about it, but above all, he feels confused, head swimming with unanswered questions. It’s certainly not like Roger to be afraid of confrontation, so Brian doesn’t understand why he never said anything or why he had to be drunk before he finally did. And the kiss — he can cope with Roger’s drunken offenses, but not something like this, not something that makes him feel so, so cheap.

His duvet is suddenly pulled off him, and his body is exposed to the cold air. “Give it back!”

“Tim will be here in two hours and you look like shit,” Freddie says, dumping Brian’s duvet on his own bed. 

Brian puts the pillow over his face. “Maybe I would look better if I’d got enough sleep,” he says sourly.

“You’re awake now,” Freddie says with what Brian supposes must be feigned patience, and when he peeks out from behind his pillow, Freddie looks to be anything but. “We both know you won’t be able to go back to sleep. Save us both some time and get up now. Here,” he says, quickly going through Brian’s closet to find him a woolen jumper. Brian grudgingly accepts it, pulls it over his head and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His hair looks a bit like some animal crawled up there and died. When he voices this thought, Freddie merely laughs.

“I miss being able to go outside without feeling like a loon,” Brian says. “Honestly Fred, it looks awful now, and I’m sure it’ll only go downward from here. Long hair will never suit me.” 

It’s a bit unfair, he thinks, that the in between phases of growing out their hair looks good on everyone but him. There’s not yet any difference to be seen with John and Roger, and Freddie’s lengthening hair, only just brushing his collar, rather suits him.

“I promise you it will, it’s just hard for you to visualise,” Freddie says. He looks around and picks up his sketchbook from his desk. Brian watches him skeptically while he with swift precision outlines Brian’s face and future haircut. “See?” he says when he’s done, showing Brian his sketch, “it’s not bad, is it?”

Brian tilts his head. The longer locks soften his face in a way his previous haircut didn’t, and he has to admit it suits him rather well, even though he’s privately convinced that Freddie has made his face more proportional for the sake of making his point. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“It’s bad now,” he says, because that has to count for something, and he adds hopefully, “we can postpone the photoshoot?”

Freddie gives him a look and points him to his closet.

Grudgingly he dresses, grabs his books, and follows Freddie to the kitchen where an equally bleary eyed John is hanging over his tea. At the sound of their footsteps, he drags his eyes to each of their faces, and he looks so tired Brian can only wince in sympathy. Putting his books on the table, Brian sets about making himself a cup of tea, and Freddie offers to toast him a slice.

A ‘ping’ sounds from John’s phone, and he looks at it warily before abandoning his breakfast to fill up a glass of juice and retrieve a couple of painkillers from a kitchen drawer. Just as John disappears into his room, Brian’s toast is ready, and he drags his tired body to the worktop to retrieve them.

The sound of two pairs of feet makes him tense, and he’s glad that they seem to be heading towards the bathroom. He sits down opposite of Freddie, his back to the living room.

“Pass me the jam, please?” he asks, but then hears retching from the bathroom, and promptly puts down his toast. 

A voice that is weak and more hoarse than usual, but unmistakingly Roger's, sounds, "do you think it's possible I might be pregnant? I feel really, really nauseous, and — "

"After the amount of alcohol you consumed last night, I doubt anything but yourself has survived," comes John's calm voice. "Come on, let's get some coffee in you."

"Shower first, breakfast later," Freddie calls, and there’s a part of Brian that wants to gloat.

Crunching on his toast, he thinks he hears Roger half-sobbing " _ why _ ?", but doesn't feel the least bit bad for him. Then follows incomprehensible mumbling, and John, much louder, "mate, I love you, but I'm not gonna help you shower."

Freddie on the other hand seems to be in a good mood, singing to himself as he brings his plate to the sink and retrieves a cucumber which he starts slicing with frightening ease. 

“You’re very… domestic today,” Brian comments, not entirely sure how he feels about it.

“Gotta help you three look presentable is all,” Freddie says in a ridiculous voice. “Are you done with that? Put these on.”

“It’s alright,” Brian says, drawing back when Freddie approaches him with two pieces of cucumber, butcher knife still in hand.

“You don’t look it,” Freddie says, “come on, sit back.”

Reluctantly he accepts the slices of cucumber and is instructed to put them on his eyes, and while he frankly feels quite ridiculous, it's less work to go along with it, even if it makes his eyes feel cold and refreshed in a way that doesn't feel natural. 

“For how long do I have to sit like this?” he asks when he hears approaching footsteps, feeling fidgety and more than a little suspicious he's going to be jumped by the rhythm section at any given moment. 

“What's that?” Freddie replies distractedly, “just relax.” 

Unnerved, Brian removes the cucumber slices and sees John grinning shyly at Freddie.

“A little while more,” Freddie tells him as he maneuvers John’s body into a comfortable position and places the slices on his eyes, which Brian thinks is a bit unnecessary as John is perfectly capable of doing it himself. Freddie looks at him and seems to realise that he is not going to continue with the cucumber, retrieves some ice from the freezer, wraps the cubes in a napkin and instructs him instead to press it against the skin below his eyes, “to get the blood flowing”.

Brian figures he may as well get some reading done and reaches for his book, left hand applying slight pressure with the ice, and attempts to flip to the marked page. The book falls closed over his hand, and he lets out a huff of irritation, putting the ice down on the table with a little more force than necessary. Freddie glances at him but thankfully keeps quiet, and Brian manages to go over half a chapter before the bathroom door is opened and he decides to retreat to his room. 

There he spends an hour in blessed silence until Freddie opens the door and slips inside, a sponge bag in a bright pink colour that must speak to his sense of humour in his hand. 

“Feeling better?” he asks lightly.

Brian shrugs halfheartedly. 

“Only Tim’s going to be here soon, and the other two are just about ready,” Freddie continues. He rummages through the sponge bag and produces a tube of some kind of product and waves it in front of Brian. “Can I convince you to let me give you a tiny touch up? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

Brian eyes the small tube. “When you say touch up…”

“Only a bit under your eyes.”

“Okay,” Brian allows, moving his books out of the way so Freddie can kneel in front of him on the bed. “Sorry about the other stuff.”

Freddie hums and squeezes a bit of the stuff out on the back of his hand. “See, this one’s too light for me, but for John and you, it’s perfect,” he says, producing a small brush and beginning to apply it in what feels like small dots below his eyes, “it’s really only because you’ve had too little sleep that we use this, your complexion is quite good otherwise.”

“Did you buy this stuff just for today?” Brian asks, trying to distract himself from the odd sensation of cool liquid being blended into his skin.

“Some time ago, but yes, I thought it might come in handy in a situation like this.” Freddie studies him critically, then blends a little more below his left eye. “There you go! Put on a smile and you could fool just about anyone.”

Brian doesn’t know what to say to that, but accepts the hand mirror from Freddie and marvels over how natural it looks.

The door opens. “Tim’s here,” says Roger, poking his head in. Brian bristles.

Freddie puts a hand on his knee and turns to Roger. “We’ll be there in a moment, dear.”

The door closes again, and Freddie regards him for a moment. “I take it you haven’t resolved your argument?” 

“What?” Brian asks in an admittedly reserved tone, clenching and unclenching his jaw in an attempt to focus on literally anything else but thoughts of Roger, the incident on repeat in his mind. It doesn’t work, if anything it makes it worse, and it takes Freddie to gently release the mirror from his tight grip to make him snap out of it.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Brian says, more harshly than intended, and then feels guilty about it until a mean little voice in the back of his head asks him why Freddie always has to put his nose in other people’s businesses. He pulls his hands from Freddie’s. “Just leave me alone.”

Freddie clicks his tongue. “Afraid I can’t.”

Brian shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, irritation seeping out of him just like that. “I’m sorry,” he says, frankly rather tired of himself, “my temper’s really bad at the moment, I don’t know why. Still isn’t an excuse.”

Freddie tilts his head.

“I don’t think it’s gonna help anyway,” Brian says, wrapping his arms around his knees, “it’s between him and me, but I can’t talk to him right now.” He refrains from adding to it, though his mind supplies that to Roger, he’s now less worth than he was a week ago, and that really, their friendship was never as strong as he thought.

“That’s okay,” Freddie says, “it’s okay to take time to think things over. Just don’t wait so long that you avoid it.”

Brian exhales through his nose. “I won’t.”

Freddie gives him a tentative smile. “Ready to go in there?”

“Bit of a waste of this stuff if I don’t,” Brian says, gesturing to his face.

Freddie laughs and helps him to his feet. “Always so reasonable.”

Tim is indeed there when they enter the living room, seated in the armchair with a beer in his hand. “Good to see you,” he says, accepting awkward, bent-over hugs from his chair. “You’re still sure about the nude thing?”

“I didn’t spend half a jar of La Mer for nothing,” Freddie says haughtily. 

“He sniffed his sample and pretended his regular is the real stuff,” John translates. 

Brian feels his lips pull into a smile, and marvels over how much a difference a pot of coffee and Freddie’s beauty regime has made from two hours earlier. 

“Anyway,” Freddie says, throwing John a steely glance. The effect is ruined when John merely laughs and Freddie’s own lips twitch. “I still say we should use my bed.”

“You need to take down all your shit, then,” Roger speaks from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, unusually quiet to Brian’s relief. “At least if we’re going for something more professional looking.”

“Think we ruined that idea when we decided to get naked,” John says with a wry smile. Roger smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Surely we can move it to the living room?” Freddie asks, “we can move the record player.”

“As long as you don’t expect me to help,” Tim says.

Freddie looks at them hopefully. John looks anywhere else, and Roger immensely disinterested, so Brian nods, keen to get going so it’s over sooner. “Let’s move the record player first then.”

He unplugs it and carefully moves it to the coffee table, Freddie following with the speakers, and John and Roger grabbing a crate each. When the area is clear, the real challenge begins — ridiculous rococo bed is dead heavy and too wide to fit through the door, so they have to remove bedding and throw pillows and carry it sideways instead, which is a bit of a pain as Freddie insists on walking in front of them, fretting unnecessarily, his  _ careful! _ s making Brian want to knock it against the doorframe on purpose. They finally get it to where it’s supposed to be, and Brian flops down on the couch while Freddie makes the bed and chats with Tim. He can hear John and Roger talk quietly but tries to block it out the best he can.

“Alright, I think we’re just about ready,”  Freddie announces a little while later, and when Brian looks up, the camera is also set, something that has escaped his notice entirely, “off with your kit, you three.”

Brian hesitates a moment before obediently removing trousers, jumper and t-shirt. It’s a bit too cold to walk around like this, he thinks, but then if the others can do it, so can he.

“I think we’re gonna place Roger in the middle,” Tim says, and Roger, clad in ridiculous cloud-patterned pants, climbs onto the bed. “A bit further back — yes. Turn so you’re facing to the right. Bend your knees a bit, it’s okay that it feels natural.”

Roger lets out a snort and wraps his arms around his bent legs, head coming down to rest on his knees. 

Tim ignores him and moves on. “John, I want you to his left, your body facing him but looking at me — maybe not so much… you know when you’re sitting on your knees but sort of let your legs fall to one side?”

“You have to sit like a mermaid, dear, is what he’s telling you.”

“Thanks,” Tim says flatly, “okay, Brian, as you may have guessed you go on the other side, and Freddie’s lying on his side in the front.”

Brian doesn’t miss the glance Roger shoots him but decides to ignore it as he settles on the bed, uncomfortably close to the one person he would rather be much further away from.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” sounds Freddie’s low voice, and Brian looks up from picking at a frayed cuticle.

“It’s okay,” John says with patience, and from his expression it’s clear it’s not the first time he’s been asked. 

Brian can’t see Freddie’s face, but he seems to keep his eyes trained on John for a second before he shimmers out of his pants. Tim tosses him the finely woven scarf chosen to cover his modesty, and Freddie drapes it over his hips in such a way that Tim covers his eyes and tells him to “make an effort, Fred, really.”

“Roger, straighten up, and Brian, I need you to move a bit closer,” Tim says once he’s behind the camera. Brian does so, but feels tense with Roger’s legs pressed against him like that. “Move your leg a bit, Freddie, his pants aren’t quite covered.”

Even though he really does try to concentrate, Brian feels worse with each passing second, and after only a few pictures, Tim stops. “Alright there, Bri? Do you need a break? You don’t look too good.”

His instinct is to brush off the concern and continue, but something makes him nod, and he's saying “a breath of air might be good, yes” before he can stop himself. He doesn't look at the others but focuses on locating his trousers and a jumper, steps into his boots and is short of running for the stairs.

As he should have expected, it's freezing cold outside and he's definitely not dressed for it, but it feels good to put some distance between himself and the uncomfortable situation. He leans back against the wall, tries to figure out his feelings. Then the door opens, and he closes his eyes and braces himself.

“Thought you might be cold.” Brian opens his eyes, and Roger is holding out his jacket. He takes it and puts it on, returns to his earlier stance against the wall, teeth worrying his lip. Roger looks away and produces lighter and cigarettes from his pockets. Brian wraps his arms around himself. 

There’s a long moment of silence while Roger smokes and Brian pretends not to care for his presence. Roger looks down and flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, then turns to face him. 

“Look, Brian…” he begins, sounding decidedly uncomfortable, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have ignored you or done… that.”

Brian is careful not react, pretends immense disinterest in him and takes in the street instead, the buildings and the grey weather, a lady in a fur coat with a stubborn dog… 

“I'm not proud of how I handled it,” Roger continues, voice uncharacteristically low.

“Handled  _ what, _ exactly?” Brian snaps, unable to pretend anymore, hating that Roger can’t even say it out loud.

“I just hate that guy,” Roger blurts, “I hate him, okay? I know I was being childish, I fucking know that, but I  _ can’t stand  _ thinking about him!”

Brian’s eyebrows knit together. “Who? Daniel?” he checks, and then adds, for no reason he can see, even to himself, “he made our website.” 

“What? I don’t — the guy you shagged,” Roger frowns.

“Daniel,” Brian repeats, not sure why it’s important.

Roger drops his cigarette to the ground and extingues it with the toe of his boot. “Okay,” he says slowly, “I still hate him. And I kept picturing you two, which is why I avoided you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Brian says, more curious than angry now, “why do you hate him?”

Roger looks at him uncomfortably. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of does.”

Roger scrubs a hand through his hair. “Can I tell you later? After the photoshoot?”

Brian had completely forgot about that. He nods, but then remembers the other reason for his anger. “What you did yesterday,” he says, looking Roger in the eye, “when you tried to kiss me without my consent — that was really, really not okay.”

“Why though?” Roger says, like it doesn’t much matter to him, “I mean, I respect it, but why wasn’t it?”

“Why do you assume I want to kiss you?” Brian explodes, “did you think you could, what, buy my forgiveness? Is that what you think? That because I’m a fag, I’m also a fucking whore, that I should be  _ thankful _ or  _ flattered  _ that you want to kiss me when you’re piss-drunk?”

Roger recoils like he’s been hit, everything about his face and body language expressing regret. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t think. And I don’t think those things, you know that surely?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fuck,” Roger swears, dragging a hand over his eyes, “I’ve really been a tool about this. I think I didn’t realise just how much.”

Brian looks away, suddenly embarrassed with himself now that Roger has turned it into a thing, but he doesn’t feel angry anymore. “Yes,” he agrees firmly, but then grants him a small smile, “didn’t know how I ever expected anything less.”

Roger barks out a laugh, looking so relieved that it feels like something is squeezing Brian’s heart.

“Let’s get back inside?” he asks, only now realising how much he’s freezing.

“You’re just itching to get naked again?” Roger teases, but sends him a worried glance a second later, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to joke about that.

“Dying to,” he says dryly, stepping inside the warm building. Roger lets the door slam behind them. 

“Wonder what they’ve talked about while we’ve been down here.”

“Us, I imagine,” Brian replies, and then, because he just can’t seem to let it go, “Roger, about the kiss again… why  _ did _ you do it? I know you were really drunk, but… no, wait, doesn’t matter. Forget about it.”

Roger stops on the stairs, and Brian does, too, two steps below him. “Don’t you ever do anything spontaneous?”

“Of course I do,” he says, covering his lie with a scoff. 

Roger looks at him for a long time. “Well, there you have it,” he says, and starts walking again.

It isn’t quite the explanation he had hoped for, but he decides then that it won’t do him any good to dwell on it. The important thing is that he feels like things are almost back to normal, and that’s more than he had hoped for.

♛ ♛ ♛

“What is this?” Brian asks as Roger places two glasses and a bottle of gin on the table in front of him. After hours of posing and trying out different things, Tim finally announced he had what he needed, and was soon off with a promise of looking through and picking out the best pictures the following week. John had gone off to work and Freddie retreated to his room, and Brian, in a much better mood now that he was dressed, had pestered Roger until he agreed to sort the rest out now.

“I’m a bit concerned you don’t know,” Roger replies, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of tonic water.

“I have an exam tomorrow,” Brian says warily.

“Even better! Let’s celebrate your successes!” Roger flops down on the chair opposite of him, and Brian fixes him a look. “Alright, I need something to drink or I won’t survive the embarrassment.”

Brian lifts an eyebrow, “sounds like a healthy way of coping. Should I worry?”

“Maybe?” Roger says, adding a generous amount of gin to his glass. “We didn’t have any ice.”

“I’ll survive,” Brian says, accepting a glass from Roger. “Come on now, get to it.”

Roger gulps down a healthy dose of his drink. “Promise not to get mad,” he says, “or to laugh.”

“I can’t,” Brian says, his alarm bells already ringing.

“Okay, just — okay. You remember I said that I hate Daniel? I don’t, really. Or maybe I do, but that’s not the point. The point is that I saw you two, and it… uh, made me think of things,” he says vaguely.

“Yes?” Brian prompts.

“I didn’t know how to act around you,” Roger says, not really answering the question, “because I did worry — worry might be an understatement, Deaky’ll tell you — that I might have something against it. You shagging guys, I mean.”

“And do you?” Brian asks gently.

“No,” Roger says, and Brian is careful to hide the immense relief he feels, “but, uhm. I think seeing that made me a bit, ah, curious?”

It takes a second for Brian to understand. When he does, he lets out a snort. “You’re not serious.”

Roger just looks embarrassed. 

“You ignored me for a week because, what, you wished it was you getting plowed instead?” he laughs, “God, you can’t — I gotta tell Freddie!”

“No!” Roger says, reaching over to place a hand over his mouth. Brian licks his palm, and Roger removes it, an expression of disgust on his face. “ _ Don’t _ tell him! And I don’t want… that, I only said I was curious! I’m not anymore.”

Brian sends him a knowing smile.

“I’m not!”

Brian laughs again, the whole situation too absurd to take serious. “Well,” he says, “you tell me if you ever need a helping hand.”

Roger downs the rest of his drink.


	6. Chapter 6

“He was definitely snoring,” Mary says in a low voice as they roll up their mats, “even the instructor heard.”

“He was not,” Freddie insists, because no way it’s possible to fall asleep that fast, “he was out of breath.”

“He falls asleep during yoga class, you know he’s the type of guy who falls asleep on top of you.” She waves at the instructor.

“I hope you’re aware they’re not actually supposed to do that,” Freddie says, unscrewing the cap on his water bottle as they walk towards the changing rooms. 

“Is it bad that I’ve had worse?”

Freddie shudders. “Do I want to know?”

“You really don’t,” Mary says, “but you are allowed to help me, you know.”  

“I don’t know,” he says, looking to the ceiling in thought, “suppose Roger’s out of question?”

“Yes,” Mary says emphatically, and Freddie laughs. “And no one you live with. Though John’s sweet.”

“Oh no, John, he’s a deviant,” Freddie says in a serious voice, repressing memories of John’s rendition of _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ earlier this morning, “blood play’s not uncommon, and I’ve walked in on things much worse.”

“Really?” Mary asks, momentarily stopping in her tracks to stare incredulously at Freddie, “ _John_?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” he says, waving at he as he turns to the door on the right, “see you out front.”

Freshly showered, they walk the short distance to the tube, making plans to meet up at the usual café between classes on Thursday. Freddie is starting to feel peckish, but Mary is going to her folks’ for lunch, and he figures he might as well wait until he gets home.

He finds an almost empty compartment, which is just short of a miracle this time of day, and spends the ride doodling, smiling to himself when he imagines what John might say if he’d overheard Freddie’s conversation with Mary.

Freddie’s thoughts continue to circle around John as he walks from the tube to the flat, but he’s surprised nonetheless when John’s voice, unusually loud, is the first thing he hears when he steps into the hall.

“If you had just _bothered_ to read the forewords—”

“He fought in the war!” comes Brian’s voice, “you’re not honestly telling me you think he hasn’t drawn inspiration from his experiences.”

“Of course he has!” John says, seething like Freddie has rarely heard him, “but there’s a difference between drawing inspiration from experiences and deliberately using allegories.”

Freddie quietly enters the living room. John is in the middle of the room glaring daggers at Brian, Roger’s sitting on the couch with a blank stare, and Brian is leaning against the kitchen worktop, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I don’t see that difference,” he says, “C.S. Lewis—”

“You don’t always have to be right you know,” John explodes, “this is my life! Can’t you just trust me to be right about this?”

“Not when you’re being so ridiculous.”

“What are they fighting about?” Freddie asks, having inched himself towards the couch. Ziggy’s head appears from underneath it, and Freddie bends down to greet him.

Roger just about yawns. “Whether or not Tolkien uses allegories in Lord of the Rings.”

Freddie lets out a snort. “You’d think he would learn.”

“You’d think they had more interesting things to discuss,” Roger says, “what even is an allegory?”

Brian and John both stop to stare at him.

“Chinese?” Freddie asks quickly, fearing they’ll start yelling at Roger instead.

Roger nods and makes a quick escape, and Freddie waves at the other two before following him.

They walk in comfortable silence, Roger smoking and Freddie appreciating the winter sun. They pass a small boutique Freddie’s visited a couple of times before, and he stops short when he spots a pair of ridiculous socks on display.

“Hold on a tick,” he says, catching Roger’s elbow before he can walk on.

Roger gestures with his cigarette. “I’ll wait out here.”

Freddie enters the warm store, smiling at the lady he recognises as the owner. He makes his way to where an array of socks are displayed, and picks up the pair featuring bitchy looking mermaids and _Makin’ waves_ written beneath them. They’re hideous of course, but they’re not for him, and it doesn’t really matter what he thinks of them. They are perfect.

“Excuse me,” he says as he approaches the counter, “do these come in a men’s size?”

The owner smiles at him. “Sure do, hon. Let me find you a pair.”

Freddie thanks her and looks around the store while she’s gone, afraid the giddiness he feels might show in the form of a stupid smile if he’s not careful.

“Would you like them wrapped?” she asks as she appears behind the counter a moment later.

“Yes please,” he says, and, noticing the small opals in her ears, adds, “I adore your earrings.”

“Aren’t you sweet? Here you go,” she says, pushing the small bag towards him as he pays, “happy holidays.”

“You too,” he says, close to bouncing as he leaves the store.

“What’d you get?” Roger asks, curiously looking at his bag, “Christmas present?”

“No,” Freddie says, passing Roger as he walks towards the Chinese restaurant. Roger sighs loudly and follows him.

♛ ♛ ♛

Armed with take-out, they leave the restaurant some twenty minutes later. Roger has popped open one of the boxes and is chewing on a spring roll already.

“I’m so glad you came,” he says, “I was just about starving, but I couldn’t very well start making lunch with those two shouting at each other.”

Freddie switches his bags to the other hand. “I’ve rarely seen him that riled up before.”

“Are you kidding? He’s the most uptight guy I know,” Roger says, “maybe I bring it out in him. I’m always glad when he’s fighting with one of you instead, makes me feel less bad about it.”

Freddie stares at him. “You’re talking nonsense again, dear.”

“What? Only yesterday we had a big fight! Remember? You were naked.”

“Wh—oh, you’re talking about Brian.”

“Of course,” Roger says, “who were you—oh. Well, uh, I didn’t notice, but something must’ve been bothering him for him to set off like that.”

“Me neither,” Freddie says, “I wish I could read him better.”

Roger shrugs. “Think he would’ve let us if he wanted us to.”

Freddie’s not so sure about that but doesn’t voice his thoughts. He holds the door open for Roger, slowly following him as he bounces up the stairs, no doubt excited about the prospect of food.

“You can have the dumplings if you want,” he hears Roger say just as he closes the door behind him.

“Stop sharing my food,” Freddie shouts, quickly unbuttoning his coat.

“It’s not your food,” Roger says when Freddie enters the living room.

“The dumplings are,” Freddie says, “you don’t even like them. Hi Brian.”

Brian smiles. “Don’t worry. Just asked what you got. I’m off anyway.”

“To where?” Roger sounds put out.

“Liam,” Brian says, swallowing down the rest of his tea.

Roger quickly glances at Freddie. “Who?”

“One of my students,” Brian says, not noticing the way Roger’s shoulders sag, “honestly, if you would just listen once in a while—”

“I do listen,” Roger protests, “but you tutor so many, I can’t keep up.”

“I knew who you were talking about,” Freddie says, tucking into a box of stir-fry.

“You did not!”

Freddie laughs. Brian rolls his eyes.

♛ ♛ ♛

After they’ve consumed their lunch and Roger is distracted by his phone, Freddie grabs his bag and heads for the other bedroom. Ziggy follows.

“Knock, knock,” he says, pushing the door open to reveal John lying flat on his back on the floor. “Oh dear.”

“Don’t,” John warns before Freddie can say anything else, “I have my biggest exam tomorrow and I’m not being Brian about it but I really haven’t studied enough.”

“Ah, cheer up, I’ll help you,” Freddie offers, selfless person that he is.

John regards him with suspicion, which looks vaguely intimidating even though he’s lying on the naked floor. “Why would you do that?”

“Am I not allowed to do nice things?”

“You always say you don’t ‘do nice’,” John says in a poor imitation of Freddie’s voice, inching away from Ziggy who’s rubbing his head against his shoulder.

“People change,” Freddie says, giving up on standing and situating himself on the floor next to John, “but I also want you to tell me what they’ve been fighting about. I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

John looks at him blankly. “Roger’s having a gay crisis.”

Freddie smacks him on the arm. “Fine, keep your secrets. Anyway, I didn’t come here for gossip—”

John’s eyebrows lift. Freddie ignores him.

“—I came because I got you a present.”

John scrambles to sit up as Freddie presents him with the bag. “Really?”

“Only for you, love.”

John looks at him and then the bag, reaching into it and carefully extracting the pair of socks.

“Oh my god,” he says, mouth stretched wide, “they’re awful, I love them! You must hate them.”

“I do, believe me, darling.”

John pulls him into a hug. “Thank you,” he says. His breath tickles Freddie’s ear.

“It’s nothing,” Freddie says when he’s eventually released, “I knew as soon as I saw them that you belonged together.”

John is still smiling. He looks down at the socks and back at Freddie again like he can’t believe it, and Freddie is once again taken aback by how happy even the smallest actions seem to make him. It makes him want to shower John in presents every day.

“Freddie,” John says. His smile is replaced by something else now; more serious and with just a hint of what Freddie thinks might be worry. It makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.

“Can I tell you something?” He turns the socks in his hands, over and over.

“Of course,” Freddie says, “you can tell me anything.”

“No one knows,” John says. Pauses. “Except Roger. But I didn’t tell him. He’s annoyingly perceptive at times.”

This might be the closest to blabbering John has ever come. Freddie is dying to know but knows better than to hurry him.

John hesitates, looks at him for a long time. Freddie’s phone rings.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sending John a pained look, “it’s my mum. Is it okay that I—”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Go ahead.”

He shoots John an apologetic smile and stands up. “Hi mum.”

He wishes he could go back to reclining artfully while speaking on the phone, but Brian’s habit of anxious pacing has rubbed off on him, and he leaves the room as to not annoy John while his mum lists all the things he needs to remember and/or help with before he comes home in two weeks’ time.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to make Kash do it?” Freddie asks, picking up a piece of crumpled up paper and throwing it at Roger’s sleeping form. He doesn’t stir. “She lives there, after all.”

“Kashmira has her own duties,” mum says, “and she’s busy with school.”

“I have school, too,” Freddie protests, but he knows it’s no good. It’s clear who’s the favourite child in the family. “Yes, okay. I’ll see you soon. Tell dad and Kash hello.”

♛ ♛ ♛

Freddie spends his last fiver on tea from his favourite café Friday afternoon. It’s definitely worth it—everything is just that much better when you’ve paid for it. As he sinks into a worn armchair, steaming cup cradled in his hands, he spots Brian outside the window and waves.

He puts his cup on the table and digs through his bag for pen and notepad, flipping through it to mark the relevant pages. Brian is by the counter now, scanning the board as if he doesn’t already know what he’s having.

“A medium Earl Grey to sit, please,” Freddie mouths along with him.

“Hi,” Brian says a moment later, large mug in hand, “been here long?”

Freddie shakes his head, gestures for Brian to sit. “Ten minutes, not too bad. How’s your day?”

“Unusually slow,” Brian says, struggling to get out of his coat and worn jumper. Underneath he’s wearing another, this one with a hole in it.

Freddie snorts. He’s never seen more than two customers in that bookstore at once.

“But my student cancelled for later, so I’m free tonight.”

“What, no studying?”

“Yes, of course,” Brian says, like he doesn’t understand. He blows on his tea, and Freddie catches a whiff of the fragrant steam. “You know, I wanted to tell you …”

He pauses. Freddie sits back. While it’s nice that everyone suddenly wants to spill all of their secrets to him, they’re terribly bad at it. He’s still not worked out what John’s might be.

“You know how I was offered an expedition to Tenerife?” Brian asks, picking at his fingers.

“I vaguely remember, yes,” Freddie says, inwardly praising the lord. _Here it comes. Fucking finally._

Brian gives him a look. “Well, I’m not going.”

“What?” Freddie asks, feeling something drop heavily in his stomach.

“I talked to my professor a few days ago. I’m not going,” Brian repeats.

“Why not?” Freddie stresses. “Sorry.”

Brian shrugs. “It’s all right. I thought it might be better to stay. If I went, you guys would either be forced to take a break or go through the trouble of finding a replacement. Plus I have work I can’t afford to lose, and you know I don’t like new places anyway …”

Freddie nods like he understands. He hates that Brian even worries about the band—what might happen is nothing to base important decisions like this one on, and a replacement is out of question. He should have made that clear from the beginning of course, but he was caught up in what ifs himself. He hopes it really is for the best, that Brian doesn’t spend the rest of his life regretting it.

“Please don’t confuse me any more than I already am by saying all the stuff I know you’re thinking.”

Freddie looks at Brian, surprised. “Right,” he says. “Sorry. I trust you’ve thought it over many times.”

Brian smiles slightly. “Many times.”

Freddie drags a hand through his hair. “I feel like this is all we ever talk about lately.”

“I can cope with talking, it’s worse when we fight.”

Freddie gives him a look.

“I know every fight starts with me,” Brian says, “I was just saying—”

Freddie puts his hands on either side of his mouth. “You need more sex,” he sings, raising his voice enough that a few people turn. He almost knocks his tea from the table when Brian kicks him.

“Because that went so well the last time.”

Freddie rubs his shin. “Come off it, I’ll keep Roger out of the house if I have to. Send John in instead.”

Brian makes a face. “Maybe I should become celibate like you.”

“Honey, you’d never survive,” he says, “you would at the very least need to take up yoga.”

Brian makes a face. “I would rather not. Seems a bit of a waste.”

“You sound like John,” Freddie says, displeased, “and you’re not cute enough to make up for it.”

“Thanks,” Brian says drily. “It’s just, you pay a lot of money, and then you’re still overthinking, but now you do it doggy style. I honestly don’t see the appeal.”

Freddie groans. “Please don’t call it that.”

“That dog pose,” Brian amends. He looks at the forgotten notebook in Freddie’s lap. “Did you have any new songs?”

“Loads,” Freddie says, “starting with mine, then?”

♛ ♛ ♛

The next two weeks passes by in blur of exams, work, recording, and practise for their upcoming New Year’s concert. There are no fights, only minor disagreements, and they manage to wrap up the new album five days before Christmas. It’s an exhilarating feeling, and it’s enough to make Freddie splurge on champagne with what little money he has made from their stall, effectively leaving him strapped for the second time this month. At least Roger’s not doing much better.

There's also his conversation with John always playing in the back of his mind. He loves the thrill of secrets, especially when it's _John’s_ secrets, and not knowing them threatens to make him burst with it. He could just ask, of course, but they are rarely alone, and whenever they are, something always refrains him from doing so. John doesn't seem to be in a hurry to share either, but sometimes Freddie catches him looking at him, and he feels like he's a part of this mad little dance where he knows all the steps but suddenly has two left feet.

He knows what it is, knows how bad an idea it is, but he can’t help it—he used to relish this feeling; the sweet ache of falling, but this is nothing like it used to be, and he's not sure if he’s even allowed to feel this way.

It’s Roger’s fault, really, as most bad things in his life are, and he should’ve known from the second he—Friday morning, two days before Christmas Eve, one day before John and Roger leave to visit their folks—saw the bright green sweater that this would end in disaster. It’s Brian’s, Roger gleefully announces, and it’s _gigantic_ , and he’s saying, “bet we could wear it all four at once.”

Brian looks on, unhappy but clearly not in the mood for arguing, a resigned air around him.

The sweater, appalling acid-green and with a large hole in the sleeve, reaches Roger mid-thigh. He laughs. “John, come in here.”

John, dedicated supporter of Roger’s ideas and all-round good sport, gets up from the couch and ducks under the lumpy fabric. In his struggle to find his way out, he accidentally ends with his head caught in one sleeve.

Roger looks at the lump that was once John Deacon, and says, “looks like I’ve got an ace up my sleeve.”

Freddie groans, and John must’ve pushed Roger, because two pairs of legs, a head, and one enormous sweater falls to the floor with a thud.

“I hate you,” John announces, his head finally appearing beside Roger’s.

Roger laughs.

“That was by far your worst joke,” Brian says.

“Did you plan this?” John asks, sitting up so Roger has no choice but to slide out of it unless he wants to get up.

“No,” Roger says from the floor, offended, “I saw the opportunity and took it!”

“I don't believe you,” John says, but he's smiling. He crosses his legs, the sweater pooled around him, and reaches for his abandoned bowl of granola.

He looks up at Freddie then, bare legged and morning tousled, eyes crinkled around the corners. Freddie’s heart skips painfully, and he looks away, mouth dry.

♛ ♛ ♛

He forgets all about John’s secret then, caught up in his own thoughts as he is. _It doesn’t have to matter_ , he thinks, and then: _if only I could read him._

“Busy?” John asks. He’s standing in the doorway, eyes guarded, awaiting.

Freddie shakes his head.

“I need a present for Julie,” John says. Pauses. “Will you help?”

He’s not sure he wants to, not sure he can trust himself not to say something he will regret. Then he remembers that he can’t, and he doesn’t feel one bit of relief.

“I’m strapped,” he admits, “Brian’s dad is letting me bum a ride home tomorrow.”

“I’ll pay the ticket,” John offers.

Freddie’s first instinct is to say no. He hates it when people pay for him.

John knows this, he realises. He’s picking at the hem of his sleeve and gazing calmly at him, but Freddie has the feeling that this is important.

“Or we can walk,” John says, “but it’s cold out.”

He feels a tiny flicker of fear. “Okay,” Freddie says. “Thank you.”

♛ ♛ ♛

The feeling of unease quickly disappears, as his anxious thoughts often do around John. It’s just starting to get dark out, but the Christmas decorations and the alluring warmth and lights from the stores make the busy street almost cosy. It’s gently snowing. Freddie buries his hands deep in his pockets and sticks out his tongue.

“What do 14 year olds like?” John muses as they walk down Kensington High Street.

Freddie feels silly and a little bit drunk. “Complete works of Nietzsche?”

“That might be a good idea actually,” John says, turning around and walking towards the Waterstones they passed some minutes earlier.

Freddie lets out a startled laugh. “What?”

“She’s going through her emo phase,” John explains, “she’ll be delighted. Or, you know. She’ll like it, I reckon. She’s not very expressive.”

Freddie’s not sure what to make of that, so he follows John inside the warm store without further comment. Inside he gets distracted by a display of clothbound Penguin Classics, and when he looks up again, fingers still tracing the white pattern on The Picture of Dorian Gray, John is nowhere to be seen. The store is crammed with last minute Christmas shoppers, and Freddie waits long minutes to be able to ask a busy looking shop assistant for directions only to, rather rudely, be informed that the different sections are in fact labeled. With a just as clipped, aggressively polite “thank you”, he leaves her in search for the Philosophy section where he, thankfully, spots John perusing the shelves.

“Found anything yet?” Freddie asks, leaning over his shoulder to look. John jumps.

“There’s quite a lot here,” John says once he’s ascertained that it’s only Freddie there, and not someone out to harm him. “I still like the idea of buying his complete works. The Birth of Tragedy sounds so cool though.”

Freddie plucks the book from his hands and reads the back cover. “Doesn’t sound too depressing if that’s what you’re after.”

“It doesn’t,” John agrees. He takes out three other books. “These are different editions of his complete works. They cost around the same. Which one do you like best?”

“I like this one,” Freddie says, pointing at a gorgeous hardback. “It’s very dramatic.”

John smiles his crinkly smile, and Freddie forces himself to take a step back. The smile quickly fades.

“The queue is rather long,” Freddie says in an attempt to explain himself, “we should probably get going.”

John nods and slots the books back on the shelves.

“Not her,” he says when John approaches the cash desk manned by the witch from earlier. He puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him in the opposite direction.

John glances at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Freddie says with a scathing look in his direction, “she’s just very rude. Come this way.”

John complies, silently but with a small smile on his face again.

“The Tube is going to be crowded,” John says when they’re outside again. He looks at Freddie. “Do you mind walking home? Tell me if it’s too cold.”

“No, it sounds nice,” Freddie says. The streets are crowded, too, but the biting cold of the night air offers some relief.

They walk in silence then, bodies close but not touching, John’s bag swinging idly from around his wrist.

Somebody pushes past him, and he knocks into John. He doesn’t as much as stumble, his arms catching him, his body warm and solid against Freddie’s own.

“Sorry,” Freddie mumbles.

“Are you all right?”

Freddie slowly straightens. “Yes.”

They walk slightly closer after that, just enough that their hands and shoulders brush every now and then, and each time Freddie feels a jolt. The sixth time it happens, a mere 20 meters from their flat, John grabs hold of his sleeve and forces him to a halt.

Freddie turns to him with a questioning gaze.

John looks at him seriously. “I only tell you this because I trust that you value our friendship as much as I do and won’t let this change anything.”

“Okay,” Freddie says carefully, mentally preparing himself to hear John announce he’s murdered someone and wondering how and where to hide the body.

John shoves his hands in his pockets, lips pressing together.

“John, you’re scaring me.”  
  
“Sorry,” John says, eyes meeting his briefly before flicking away again. He inhales deeply as if steeling himself. “You know, I—lately I’ve been … feeling.”

Freddie very badly wants to make a joke but, apart from sensing that now is not the time, he is distracted by a window in their flat opening just as John continues speaking. Roger sticks his head out. “Hey morons, band meeting now!”

“—with you.”

“What?” Freddie asks, having caught only the last part of John’s softly spoken sentence. He feels torn between looking at John and signaling to Roger they’ve heard him.

John looks at him for a long time. Freddie feels a little lost. “Let’s go inside.”

“John, what did you say?” Freddie asks, catching hold of his sleeve.

“It doesn’t matter,” John says, gently releasing himself from Freddie grasp.

Freddie has a feeling that it matters very much.

♛ ♛ ♛

“We don’t have anything to drink, I’m afraid,” Roger’s saying, looking through the cupboards and leaving them wide open.

John curls up in the armchair. Freddie sits down on the couch. “Didn’t we have half a bottle of gin somewhere?”

Roger glances at Brian. “I don’t think so.”

“Beers?”

“We can make espresso shots? No?”

“Come sit down,” Brian says calmly, “I’ll make tea.”

Roger does as he’s told, reaching for a near-empty bag of Fizzy Cola Lances. “I have sores in my mouth,” he says, “but they’re just so good. ”

“Then stop eating them,” Freddie says at the same time as John wrinkles his nose and says “they’re really not.”

“Oh!” Roger quickly gets to his feet and into the kitchen. “Bri, where did you put them? Yes, thanks. Here!”

John narrowly catches the bag of Strawberry Lances. He grins.

“Need help?” Freddie calls to Brian, currently trying to fit four cups, the kettle, tea bags, and a pack of ginger nuts onto their too small tray.

“I think I’ve got it,” Brian says, almost dropping a cup.

“So, what are we discussing?” Freddie asks when everyone has helped themselves to tea and biscuits.

“What?” Roger says. “Oh, yeah, just thought we’d get together for the evening. We’re not seeing each other for four days!”

Freddie glances at John. He doesn’t look too happy either.

“Since we can’t play a drinking game, we’ll do something else. Say, I would never date a person who liked… dunno, Justin Bieber—”

“Is he still around?” Brian asks, “I never hear about him anymore.”

Freddie sits up straighter. “Nevermind him, where’s Lady Gaga? Now there’s someone who knows how to dress!”

Brian makes a face. “She wore a meat dress.”

“I know, how brilliant is that—”

“Not really my point,” Roger interrupts.

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying,” Roger continues, “if you agree, you just keep quiet, but if you disagree, you put your hand on the table. That way we can still judge and ridicule each other.”

“Okay,” Brian says after a beat. “Who’s starting?”

“Longest hair? Shortest hair?”

“Longest.”

“So Freddie.”

“I think Brian’s is longer,” John says.

“Pull one of his curls!”

Brian leans back on his hands. “Nobody’s pulling my hair.”

“I’ll start,” Freddie says, “God, you’re like a bunch of kids. Okay. Given the topic ... I would never date a person who pulled my hair during sex.”

The room goes very quiet. Brian puts his hand on the table. Roger follows.

Freddie smirks. “Interesting,” he says, “very interesting. Brian I expected, but Roger ...”

While Brian looks a bit like he wants to die, Roger seems decidedly unaffected. John smiles.

“John?” Roger says.

“Oh no, counterclockwise, that’s confusing,” Brian frowns.

“I trust you’ll be able to keep up,” Roger says, turning expectant eyes to John.

“I would never date someone who didn’t get me out of my shell once in a while.”

Brian smiles. “That’s sweet.”

Roger swallows his mouthful of biscuit. “I would never date a religious person.”

“Jesus,” Brian mutters.

Roger grins. “What about him?”

“You’re happy enough to celebrate Christmas.”

“Well, that’s tradition,” Roger says, “I don’t want someone who’s constantly trying to save my soul.”

“Reckon it’s too late for that,” John says.

“You don’t want to date a fundamentalist of any kind,” Freddie clarifies, “what if they practised privately? If they believed in any sort of divinity?”

“I suppose not,” Roger says. He doesn’t look too happy.

“He just doesn’t want to date the bloke with the cross,” John says between mouthfuls of Strawberry Lances.

“Brian?”

Brian puts down his ginger nut, carefully brushing off the crumbs in his lap. “I would never date a person who wore their socks to bed.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s just a thing I have,” Brian says, raising his voice slightly to be heard above Roger’s laughter, “it just, it seems a bit unsanitary to me.”

“Your chance of reaching orgasm is higher if you wear socks,” John says.

“Depends on how much of a turn off it is for him.”

“Who’s next?” Brian asks loudly.

John reaches for his tea.

“I would never date a person who makes more money than I do,” Freddie says.

Brian and John share a weary look and put their hands on the table. Roger doesn’t.

“How can you agree?” Freddie asks, “that’s like admitting you support the pay gap!”

“What? No!”

“How is that admitting to anything?” Brian asks, sounding tired. “You’re both idiots.”

“He clearly doesn’t want his girlfriend to make more money than him.”

“Hey, I either make it as a rock star or die dirt poor and alone,” Roger says, “besides, what difference does it make that you date a bloke?”

“It makes all the difference,” Freddie says, “for one, said bloke would make as much as I do should he choose to do so—”

“Would he survive it?” Brian asks flatly.

“I just don’t want to be treated like a charity case,” Freddie says, crossing his arms.

“But you don’t mind treating your partner like one,” John says.

Freddie pauses, suddenly uncomfortable.

“This sure uncovers some truths,” Brian comments.

“I would never date a person who thinks like you two,” John says. Brian nods in agreement.

“Alright,” Freddie says, admitting defeat, “I’m an arse.”

“You both are.”

An strained silence follows. Freddie can hear Ziggy crunch on his dry feed.

“I would never date a person who dislikes our music,” Roger says, less energetic than before.

John puts his hand on the table. Brian looks torn.

“I would never date someone who doesn’t support my decisions,” he says after a long moment.

No one puts their hand on the table, but Freddie notices the guilty look on Roger’s face.

Freddie fills up his cup. “I would never,” he says slowly, ”date a person who doesn’t sing along to 80s music every morning.”

Roger slaps his palm on the table. Brian follows.

John looks at him with an expression Freddie can’t quite decipher. It sends a tiny thrill through his body.

“I would never date someone who doesn’t take me to the ballet,” John says then, putting on a lofty tone.

Freddie laughs. “That's my boy!”

Roger and Brian exchange glances and promptly put their hands on the table.

Roger shifts on his spot on the floor. “I would never date someone who wears clogs.”

Brian frowns. “What’s wrong with clogs?”

“Everything,” Freddie says.

“Remind me of old people and Netherland...ians...?”

“The Dutch?” John offers with a laugh.

“Exactly,” Roger grins.

Brian puts his hand on the table. “They’re not that bad.”

John does, too.

“I expected more of you,” Freddie chides, stretching to swat him on the arm.

“I know you do,“ John says, gaze lingering. Freddie licks his dry lips.

“Alright, you two, get a room,” Roger says, startling them both.

Freddie levels him with a cool gaze. “It’s your turn, dear.”

Brian hides a smile behind his teacup.

“Alright,” Roger says, “I would never date someone who fusses about my health all the time. Like wanting me to take up jogging or eat vegetables or quit smoking.”

“I’ve seen you eat vegetables,” Freddie says, stretching out on the couch, “you eat Chinese all the time.”

“No, he leaves them all at the bottom of the box,” John says.

“I don’t know if I agree or not,” Brian says, “while I believe that your body is your own, I think that when you share it with someone, you should think about what you do to it. Besides, it’s nice to have someone looking out for you.”

“It’s bloody annoying,” Roger says, crunching on a biscuit.

Brian looks him in the eye and puts a hand on the table. Roger sticks his tongue out.

“Brian?”

“I don’t think I would date someone who has piercings,” Brian says, “I’m a bit old-fashioned that way, I suppose.”

John and Roger put their hands on the table.

“Deaky’s the type who gets his nipple pierced,” Roger says.

“That’s the dream,” John says flatly. He turns to Brian. “What about tattoos?”

“Depends,” Brian says.

Roger leans forward. “On what?”

Brian squirms.

“I used to know somebody who got the face of her late grandfather tattooed on her back,” John says.

Freddie shudders. “There’s one way to ruin your sex life.”

Roger laughs. “Did you see it?”

“I saw a picture of it,” John says, “he did look rather stern. I suppose Freddie’s not far off.”

“Yes, I don’t think I would date anyone who had their grandfather tattooed on their back,” Brian says.

“Too much competition, I reckon.”

“Too far, Roger, really,” Brian says over Roger’s cackles.

Freddie reaches for the teapot but finds it empty. He gives it a little shake. “I think this might be our cue.”

Roger sits up straighter and touches his hand to Brian’s arm. “Oh yes, did you want to take a look at this one part? Or are you too tired?”

Brian looks at his watch. “No, it’s fine.” They both get to their feet. “Goodnight you two.”

“Goodnight,” Freddie calls from the couch.

The door to the studio closes behind them. John shifts in his seat, feet connecting with the carpet.

“John,” Freddie says before he can escape, “come here.”

John stands and walks closer. Freddie scoots back against the backrest and pats the narrow stretch of couch. “Come lie down?”

John hesitates, clearly not comfortable with the idea. Freddie’s heart twists a little.

“You don’t have to,” he says, but John is already lowering himself onto the couch. When he turns his face towards Freddie’s, their noses almost bump together. “Tell me your secret.”

John doesn’t smile like Freddie thought he would. “I can’t,” he says quietly, “not here.”

Freddie’s body is positively thrumming from the proximity, and he very badly wants to know. He searches John’s eyes, deep and still like a forest lake. “I like secrets.”

John’s eyes drop. “I know.”

“I’ll tell you mine.” Freddie ventures a tentative hand to John’s cheek.

John’s eyes flick back to meet his own, and his lips part, breath warm and sweet from tea and ginger nuts. Freddie can’t stop looking, can’t stop wondering.

“I’m too afraid to,” John whispers.

Freddie leans in, presses a soft, questioning kiss to his mouth, lips lingering only for one, two, three heartbeats before he pulls back.

His eyes stay closed for another beat, suddenly afraid he’s gone and screwed it all up. He should’ve asked, should’ve _listened_ , and he feels a rising panic at the thought of having possibly overstepped John’s boundaries for the purpose of satisfying his own desire.

“Freddie.” There’s laughter in John’s voice. “Look at me.”

He does. A smile is growing on John’s face, and his arm slides around Freddie’s waist, tucking him close.

Freddie thinks about that one Oscar Wilde quote, with your love singing only a song you can hear, and he knows that he was wrong to think he fell only this morning. He’s been falling in love with John a bit more every morning for weeks and months now, and his songs have been many, a wonderful selection of the worst of the 80s, and Freddie doesn’t know why he didn’t realise sooner.

John tightens his grip around his waist and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the rating goes UP!

“Alright!” Roger says, turning the volume down a notch, “this is not half bad! We can ditch the others, start our own band.”

Brian snorts softly. “Much as I like the idea, I’m afraid live shows would be too much of a hassle without Freddie and John.”

Roger points at him with the drumsticks still in his hand. “You have a point.”

Brian smiles and covers a yawn. “Are we done here?

“Yeah,” Roger says with a nod and turns off the recorder. “Sorry I kept you so long.”

“It’s all right,” Brian says through another yawn. “I’m happy to get a bit of work done. Too much sitting around the next few days.”

“Your brain must be such a strange place,” Roger comments, holding the door open for Brian.

“Mmh, I’ll be happy to trade.”

“I think I’m—Brian, look,” he hisses, catching hold of his elbow. Freddie and John are on the couch, arms around each other and both fast asleep. Ziggy is curled into a tiny ball next to John’s foot.

“What?” Brian looks at him, uncomprehending.

“What do you think?” Roger is having trouble keeping his voice down, too excited to really care. One dark eye cracks open, and Roger decides that they best save the discussion for literally anywhere else.

“Stop pushing me,” Brian says, but lets himself be steered towards his room nonetheless. Roger closes the door behind them. “What’s wrong? They’re just sleeping.”

“They were not just _sleeping_ ,” Roger says, “they’ve been flirting all night! You should’ve seen them outside the flat.”

Brian frowns. “No they haven’t.”

“How blind are you?” Roger asks, perfectly aware of just how blind he is. “John’s been in love with him for ages!”

“Are you sure?”

Roger throws himself on Freddie’s neatly made bed. “Yes, I’m bloody well sure!”

“I didn’t notice,” Brian says quietly, sitting down on his own bed.

Roger lets out a laugh, because of course he didn’t. “Brian, you don’t even notice when people flirt with you.”

“Of course I do,” Brian scoffs, crossing his arms.

“Oh yeah?” Roger, head lolling to the side to look at him, “when did someone last flirt with you?”

“That’s nice, put me on the spot like that,” Brian says, raising his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I saw two girls flirt with you the night you went home with Daniel,” Roger says, “and—”

“Girls,” Brian says flatly, “how exciting.”

“If you’d let me finish,” Roger says, “you’d know that I also happen to know that someone else, someone very much male has been flirting with you for a long time now.”

“You know,” Brian says, not sounding the least bit curious, “I don’t really care for other people’s love life, and I certainly don’t care for other people caring for mine.”

Roger rolls his eyes, frustrated over how difficult Brian is being. He really is oblivious.

“Fine,” he says and stands. “Goodnight. Thanks again for helping me.”

“‘Night, Rog,” comes the soft reply.

Roger leaves without another word.

He’s still thinking about Brian when he climbs into bed, but these thoughts are of a slightly different nature. It’s an unwelcome, newly developed habit that has been going on long enough that it has ceased to surprise him. At first the thoughts had come at random, his involuntary witnessing of Brian and what’s-his-name having sex flashing across his mind at the worst of times, and always followed by a worrying flash of disgust crawling up his throat. Then slowly, disgust morphed into curiosity, and new scenes, new positions and people, supervened, and the thoughts were added to his night time routine. At this point, Roger has more or less accepted this fierce appreciation for Brian’s physique.

Unable to relieve himself for even a little bit with John in the room, Roger spends a large part of the day horny. It’s the smallest things that cause it, most of them involving Brian, but he can’t even join John for a Lord of the Rings movie anymore. At least he’s bettered his personal hygiene, going from showering three times a week to much more often.

Roger rolls onto his back with a long-suffering sigh. It’s not fair that someone as oblivious as Brian gets to affect him this way. He’s not even sure he’s attracted to him, it feels different from being attracted to girls. Maybe John’s right, he thinks, walking in on Brian has just mentally scarred him, and all he has to do is forward his therapy bills to him. That he can deal with.

Enjoying the luxury of sleeping alone for once, Roger can’t help but reach down to give his poor cock a squeeze. After all, he’s only human.   
  


♛ ♛ ♛

  
When he wakes up, thoughts of Brian and the resulting horniness are, mercifully, gone. His morning boner is taken care of with a piss, and he’s almost whistling by the time he finds Freddie and Brian in the kitchen.

“‘Morning,” he greets and pulls open the fridge in search of orange juice.

Brian acknowledges him with a nod and a brief smile before he disappears into his book again.

“Is John awake?” Freddie asks, very casually, picking up a crumb from the table and pretending immense disinterest in the answer.

Roger can’t help the smile stretching his lips. “Barely,” he says, sitting down opposite of Brian. John had returned to bed in the early hours of the morning but had been too tired to answer questions, and had rudely told Roger to “shut up and go back to sleep”. “What happened last night?”

Brian looks up from his book.

“If you tell me why you two have been tiptoeing around each other,” Freddie says, “I might consider reciprocating.”

Brian bites into his toast. Roger glances at him, surprised he hasn’t told.

“I don’t _need_ you to tell me,” Roger decides, “I’ll make John do it.”

“Do what?” comes John’s voice. Roger doesn’t even have time to react before his head is being pushed down by John’s hand.

Roger bats his hands away and runs a hand through his hair. “Tell me what you and Freddie were up to.”

“I will absolutely not,” John says, sliding into the unoccupied seat and accepting a steaming mug of coffee from Freddie with a small smile.

Roger feels like his heart might explode. His friends are _adorable_. “Are you together now?”

“Roger, stop making them uncomfortable,” Brian says.

He’s about to argue, but Freddie cuts him off before he can say anything.

“I’ll go take a shower,” Freddie announces and stands, “anyone need to use the bathroom?”

They all shake their heads. John’s eyes follow Freddie as he leaves the room. Roger sighs happily.

John sends him that look that means he’s being annoying. “Alright, you creep, I’ll have breakfast in the room.”

“I’m not,” Roger protests, “I’m interested in your love life!”

“Don’t be,” John says, picking up his mug and making his way back to their room.

Brian, who’s been silently following the conversation, shakes his head and goes back to his book. Roger plucks a buttered toast triangle from Brian’s plate, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. The butter—or margarine, judging by its cheap, dull taste—has melted into the bread, quite horrible now that it’s cold, and his attempt to chew it without tasting it just turns the bread into a sticky, compressed lump in the back of his throat that almost makes him gag before he swallows it with a grimace. Running his tongue uncomfortably over the roof of his mouth, he reaches for his glass to drain it of the last few drops of juice.

Brian, oblivious to his struggle, reads on. Roger considers flicking something at him, but there’s nothing small enough within his reach. Instead he puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand.

Roger finds the rapid blink of Brian’s eyes both amusing and endearing; like he’s so absorbed in his book he doesn’t want to miss even a fraction of a second. He’s also nibbling on his bottom lip in a way that’s horribly distracting, his jaw working under newly shaven skin. Roger feels something pull at his chest when the abused lip is released and his jaw relaxes into the teeniest amused smile.

It’s a terrible habit, this thing he does, his eyes automatically drawn to Brian when they’re in the same room and Roger is not otherwise occupied. Roger thinks it made sense at first when he was still trying to figure out what had changed and if Brian had noticed as well, but by then he had still been so uncomfortable with the whole thing he straight up avoided him, and even now that he’s come terms with it—mostly—and there really was no need for it anymore, his eyes and mind still wander to Brian quite automatically.

He looks around the living room for something else to focus on, but thoughts keep returning. He shifts in his seat.

“What are you reading?”

Brian looks at him, startled. “Dickens,” he says and reaches for his cup. He smiles. “Got to keep with tradition.”

Roger nods like he understands. John reads Tolkien’s _Letters to Father Christmas_ and Freddie has been talking about a Oscar Wilde fairy tale, but Roger has yet to see him with a book. Roger doesn’t have a book he reads every Christmas, or even every year. He wonders if he should.

Brian takes a sip of his tea. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Roger thinks of Brian on his stomach, a cock driving into him over and over.

It’s too hot in the kitchen, he thinks, even in t-shirt and boxers. He lets his hands fall into his lap, shifting subtly so his knuckles momentarily press against his cock.

Brian marks the page in his book and collects his cup and plate. “Better get packing,” he says, moving to rinse his cup.

“I can help you,” Roger proposes. He’s certain ‘packing’ is an euphemism for something much more fun, and he very badly wants to be a part of it.

Brian looks at him, surprised. “Okay.”

“I’ll just grab a cup of coffee,” Roger says, very aware of the swell of his cock, “you go ahead.”

Brian leaves then, and Roger suppresses a groan. He is so horny he can barely concentrate on the simple act of stirring milk into his coffee, and he presses his pelvis against the edge of the worktopfor a much needed moment of relief. He thinks maybe he should slip on a pair of trousers, but John is still in their room, and Freddie of course in the bathroom, doing his hour-long Christmas pampering which involves frighteningly large amounts of coconut oil, three different, all-natural face masks, and him singing along to Montserrat Caballé.

In the end he just goes to Brian’s room. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, surely.

To his disappointment, Brian really is packing when he enters the room, and not at all naked with a hand wrapped around his cock. Roger sits on his bed, subtly pulling at his boxers so his boner is not too apparent, and balances the cup on his thigh. He watches Brian go through his closet, the way his mouth twists when he’s considering something, his long fingers sifting through his folded clothes.

“What do people wear for Christmas?” he asks at last, dumping down on the bed beside Roger and almost making the coffee slosh over.

“Something nice,” Roger says mildly, bending down to put his cup on the floor to avoid burn injury.

Brian gives him a look. “Will you help me?”

“Wear my shirt for Christmas Eve,” Roger says, “Freddie’s right, it does suit you.”

“The green one?”

“Yes,” he says, “and you can wear your white jumper the next morning, the one with the three buttons at the top. It makes you look very soft.”

Brian raises his eyebrows, the beginning of a smile forming. “Soft?”

“It suits you,” Roger says firmly, quietly horrified that he called another human being, particularly one he very much wants to bed, _soft_. Even if it’s definitely true.

Crinkles form around Brian’s eyes when he smiles. Roger feels terribly silly.

He clears his throat. “Brian, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Brian says, looking at him openly.

Roger takes a second to consider the best way to ask, but quickly decides on a direct approach. He never was one for subtlety anyway, and if he’s learnt anything over their years of friendship, it is that Brian simply cannot take a hint. “If I’m looking to experiment with a bloke,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on Brian, “where would I go?”

“What?” Brian says with a laugh. Roger thinks it sounds a little shaky.

“I’m curious,” he says, feeling a thrill run down his spine at his own words. The proximity makes his cock twitch.

“Why are you asking me for help?” Brian asks after a long moment, “according to your little speech yesterday, I’m probably not your best bet if you want to be set up with someone.”

“I don’t want some random bloke,” he says. The dark lashes framing Brian’s eyes go down and up. Roger leans a little closer. “I just want to feel good.”

Brian hesitates, eyes searching his face. Roger thinks about kissing him. It’s one of his better ideas, in fact. Granted, Brian started shouting at him the last time, but those were totally different circumstances. “I might know someone.”

Roger can’t help the smirk forming. “Yeah?”

“I think you’ve met him before,” Brian says. “Remember my birthday last year? Average build, ginger, very cheery. Wore a Blondie tee.”

“Oh,” Roger says, dropping his hands into his lap in an attempt to hide his boner, “yeah. Of course.”

“I’ll ask him next time I talk to him,” Brian says, briefly putting his hand on Roger’s knee before standing. Roger feels the touch even when it’s no longer there. “There’s Freddie.”

He only just gets out a dumb “what?” before Freddie enters, and with him a strong scent of citrus and something spicy.

Freddie takes one look at Roger and asks, “what have you done? Brian, why does he look so guilty?”

"He was apologising,” Brian says smoothly, “I was quite hard on him.”

His mouth twitches at the corners, smug bastard that he is, and Roger wants to throw the pillow after him because now he _knows_ Brian is taking the piss.

“Clearly,” Freddie says, glancing at Roger's lap, and Roger hates them both.

  
♛ ♛ ♛

  
“I'm gonna miss your beautiful face,” Roger is saying mere hours later, planting a sloppy kiss on Freddie's cheek. He can’t resist and adds, “and so will John, I bet.”

“Poor thing,” Freddie says, ignoring his last comment, “I’ll send Snaps, make sure you're not devoid of it for too long.”

“I much appreciate it,” Roger says, moving on to Brian to hug him goodbye.

As Brian puts his arms around him, Roger catches a whiff of Brian’s shampoo, the one that smells of pine, comforting because he has been using it for years. He can’t help himself and lingers for a second too long.

“Have a nice trip,” Brian says, voice soft in his ear. Roger’s heart beats a little faster. “Tell your mum and Clare hello.”

With final waves and shouts of goodbye, Roger and John brace the cold, weekend bags slung over their shoulders, noses buried in scarves and the hands not clutching gift loaded bags deep in their pockets. It’s too cold to talk, so they walk in silence until they reach the station.

“Be nice going home?” Roger asks as they wait for Circle to arrive.

John nods, nose still in his scarf. He lifts his head a little. “It’s been ages.”

It has, too. Despite the considerable distance, John used to go home a lot during the weekends. It’s been at least five weeks now, what with exams and him working extra hours because of the holiday rush.

“But I’m also looking forward to coming home again after,” John says, “I bought you the best presents.”

Roger can’t help but grin at that. “Hopefully Fred&Bri haven’t found them by the time we get home.”

“Hid them in the hamper, I doubt they dare look there.”

The compartment is almost full, and they only just manage to squeeze themselves inside, Roger near the centre with nothing to hold onto.

“I’ll knock someone over,” Roger sighs and does just that when the Tube starts moving. John’s quick reflexes save him from falling arse over tits and embarrassing himself further, but he suffers an elbow in the middle in the process. “Sorry.”

“Why don’t you hold onto me and practise your balance in the meantime,” John says in that flat way of his.

Roger barely has time to hug John goodbye before the impatient mass of people force him off at Paddington. He hates leaving like that, unable to even turn around and wave, but comforts himself with a silent promise to write him as soon as he’s on the train. 

♛ ♛ ♛

The long ride to Cornwall is spent alternating between looking out the window, updating social media for both himself and the band, and napping. His textbooks, brought ina spur of optimism, remain buried deep in his bag.

When he’s an hour from Truro, he reluctantly moves from his sprawl across the hard train seat to pull a textbook from his bag, only to stare blankly at it. Even the cover looks boring.

He thinks he’s forgotten why he’s doing this in the first place. Initially, university seemed full of possibilities, but it’s no longer fun, and because he can’t bring himself to do more than the bare minimum, he’s not even learning anything anymore. And it’s not a question of being able to wing it like John is, or study like Brian, because he simply doesn’t care—doesn’t care about doing well or making his parents proud or securing himself a well paid job. He just wants to get it over with—and then what? A degree in biology? How terribly dull.

If only they were heading somewhere with the band, Roger thinks, letting his book fall to the floor with a dull thud. Despite their best efforts, gigs are scarce, and while he’s happy they finished the album, what does it matter if they’re not getting anywhere? Making it in today’s music scene seems to depend more on luck than talent, and everything sounds the same anyways. It’s not that he’s not ready to pay his dues, but Roger can’t help but wish he’d been born 50 years earlier. The whole process seemed so much smoother back in the 70s, and much more genuine. 

Feeling terribly sorry for himself, Roger picks up the tangle of earphones from his lap. The remaining hour he spends with Parallel Lines in his ears, wistfully wondering what it might be like to be alive in the 70s and famous enough to have a go at Debbie Harry.

♛ ♛♛  
  
It’s long since turned dark by the time he arrives in Truro ten to six. An icy drizzle wets the streets, the streetlights reflect in shallow puddles. Sheltered somewhat by the station building, he calls his mum to come pick him up.

After a long wait, he gets the machine. With a sigh, he tries Clare.

“Hey,” she greets one and a half ring later. He can hear the TV in the background. “You here soon?”

“I’m at the station,” he says, slumping against the wall, “tell mum to pick me up, please.”

“She’s in the middle of dinner.”

“Well, can’t you take over? I have luggage.”

“Sorry,” Clare says, not sounding it, “I’m taking a bath.”

Roger drags a hand through his hair. “I can literally hear the TV.”

“It’s not the TV, it’s my series, and you’re interrupting,” she says in a rush. “See you soon!”

Roger knows she’s unlikely to pick up again, and mum never knows where her phone is anyway. He grudgingly starts walking—down the hill, past the pastel coloured houses on each side of the road, the museum and the Wig, and into the city. It looks as he remembers it—small and bland but also wonderfully familiar, and for a moment he doesn’t mind the walk too much.

The longer way through the city is taken in favour of popping into Starbucks for a large filter to go, but as he approaches long, steep Lemon Street—earphones in, coffee clutched in one hand and his bag of gifts in the other, his overloaded weekend bag slung over his shoulder—he really wishes he hadn’t. He hates this road, always has; its abundance of dental practisesseems to mock him as he passes, and always serves to remind him of how much he hates walking.

He wonders what the others are up to and almost considers sending a Snap to ask but decides against it when he sees how little battery he has left. The walk would be truly terrible if he didn’t at least have music to keep him company. He supposes John’s having dinner with his mum and Julie around this time, but Brian and Freddie aren’t going home until tomorrow and could be up to anything. He can’t imagine them doing anything fun when he and John are not around, though he knows they like to share a bottle of wine and talk about them, which frankly is a rather disconcerting thought. Then again, rather they do it while they’re alone, he thinks as he passes their old house on Falmouth Road, because he doesn’t much fancy overhearing them while they’re tipsy and a bit too honest. Wouldn’t do his ego any good.

Eventually he reaches hilly Hurland Road, and he stops for a moment to enjoy the view: the city laid out before him, its lights blurred by the fog, the cathedral small in the distance.  

It’s mum who opens when he knocks, and Roger feels a rush of happiness.

“Oh Roger, it’s so good to see you,” she says, enveloping him in a hug. He finds himself clinging back, inhaling her comforting scent. “We missed you!”

“I missed you, too,” he says, kissing her cheek before straightening.

“Come on in,” mum says, “get out of those wet clothes. I found one of your old pyjamas, thought you might be cold. I just took them out of the dryer.”

“Thanks, mum,” he sighs, secretly delighted. It was the best part of winter when he grew up—on cold nights, he could always count on a tumble-dried pyjama and a cup of warm tea before bed.

He follows her into the living room where Clare is sprawled out on the couch. She jumps up when she sees him, and Roger realises how much he’s missed her, too.

“Dinner’s ready in a minute,” mum says, “you arrived just on time.”

“Thanks,” Roger says and reluctantly lets go of Clare, “I better get changed, then.”

And he leaves for his room, happy and grateful to be home.

♛ ♛ ♛  
  
Later, when he’s warm and full from mum’s delicious dinner, Clare and him are curled up on the couch with a blanket to share like they did when they were kids. Mum’s disappeared into the kitchen again. Roger thinks about asking if she needs help, but it’s too easy to settle into the role of a child again.

“Oh my god, why do you always make everything about you?” Clare speaks to the screen, voice loud and exasperated. “She’s so annoying!”

“Why would you watch a show where you hate the main character,” Roger asks, amused by the frequent outbursts.

“Because I like the other characters,” she says, turning away from the TV to look at him, “except Big. I honestly don’t know who I like less.”

“I like the blond,” Roger says, “she’s got confidence, it’s nice.”

“Everything Samantha does is honestly goals,” Clare says, “but then sometimes they try to make her insecure, and it’s just. It’s so out of character, and it’s insulting, too, the notion that if a woman appears confident, really she’s deeply insecure. But the show’s pretty outdated. God, imagine watching this in the 90s and suddenly Carrie’s your role model. Totally unhealthy.”

“Was this what you watched earlier?” Roger drawls, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

Clare shakes her head. “No, this is just to relax. You know, like watching Friends.”

Roger lets out a soft snort. “I assume you’ve had a rough day?”

Clare rolls her eyes. “No, but I did have lunch with Emma earlier.”

“Had lunch with? You watch too much of this,” Roger says.

“I did,” she protests. “Well, fish and chips. But still.”

Roger laughs. The kitchen door opens, and mum comes out carrying a tray with assorted sweets and two large cups of hot chocolate loaded with whipped cream. Roger quickly puts down his feet.

“Hot chocolate!” Clare says, sitting up straight.

“Maybe Roger will tell us a bit more about what he’s been up to,” mum says, placing the tray on the coffee table, “how’s university, honey?”

Roger doesn’t particularly want to talk about school when he just got away from it, but tells mum about lectures and readings in as much detail as he can for something that doesn’t interest him in the least, carefully neutral in his report.

It seems to satisfy her, and Roger feels a bit bad for not being more honest. Changing the topic to mum’s work, he attempts to quell his guilt with scalding sips of hot chocolate.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, he wakes up in his old room, well rested and deeply content. He supposes it’s technically not his room anymore, and certainly doesn’t look it, but the slanted walls and the slight crack in the ceiling is exactly the same. Yawning widely, he stretches out on the luxurious double mattress, hand grabbing for his phone next to him on the floor. There are Snaps from both Freddie and John, and a whole bunch of iMessages he cannot be bothered to reply to so early in the day. He rubs the crust out of his eyes and sends an appreciative Snap back to John’s four seconds of an intense, rugged Viggo Mortensen in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , then a sympathetic one to Freddie’s “this might be the last you see of me, dear, they’re keeping me as slave”.

He tosses his phone aside then, rolls onto his side and tries to fall asleep again, just because he can.

After a moment, he opens up the app again and sends a “morning sunshine!!” to Brian. He doesn’t expect a reply within the next two to three hours, if at all.

He kicks off his duvet and does a half-arsed attempt at making his bed before he leaves for the bathroom to do his morning toilet. On the way back, he bumps into mum.

“Good morning, love,” she says, chirpy and dressed already.

“Good morning,” he smiles. “Is Clare up yet?”

“Not yet,” mum says, “in an hour or two, maybe. Do you want breakfast?”

Roger loves being home. “Yes, please!”

Back in his room he rummages through his bag for a polo-neck and a pair of jeans. He checks his phone again, sees that John has opened his Snap but not answered, which is all kinds of rude, and answers all the Snaps and messages he ignored earlier.

A mouth-watering scent wafts through the air even before he reaches the kitchen, and when he does, mum has cooked up a full Cornish for him.

“I _love_ you,” he says, stabbing his fork through a potato cake and biting into it with relish.

Mum laughs and ruffles his hair as she passes him. “The boys don’t cook you breakfast?”

Roger lets out a snort of laughter at the absurdity of that question. “Freddie’s a worse cook than I am, and wouldn’t do it in a million years even if he could. John probably could, but that certainly doesn’t mean he does. I don’t think he would cook for anyone. Brian sometimes does, but you have to really butter him up first. Besides, we’re not so good at the restocking part.”

“I should have taught you to cook long ago,” mum sighs.

“Eh, I’ve done alright so far. I can cook at least three meals.”

Mum sits down with a cup of coffee. “Yeah?”

Roger grins at her and ticks off on his fingers. “Cup noodles, various pre-made meals, and toast. Oh, and coffee and tea. Instant, of course.”

Mum looks at him like he keeps her up at night. “Alright, you’re helping with dinner today.”

“Mum, no,” he whines, “I have plans for today! Besides, I just learnt how to wash my clothes!”

“Plans for the whole day?”

“Well, yes. Clare’s coming with me to get a new tattoo done, and later I’m meeting up with Sam and a few others.”

“Conveniently enough, I don’t start cooking before this afternoon, so if you and Clare finish early, you can help me then.”

Roger sends her a sour look but doesn’t argue. He supposes he could help a bit, if only because she just made him an epic breakfast.

Clare wakes a few hours later and finds him in the living room watching Sex & the City. By then he’s beginning to see her point about Carrie, but has taken immense liking to all of her friends and their boyfriends. Clare sits down next to him without a word.

“Does she always change the topic to talk about herself?” Roger asks after a particularly irksome scene.

“Always,” Clare replies, “and they just let her! They only tell her off two or three times throughout the whole series.”

“She doesn’t deserve them,” Roger decides, “especially not Stanford. It’s like she only talks to him when it’s convenient for her.”

“I know!” Clare says, “now, watch this.”

Roger does, and if anyone would ask if later if he shouted at the screen, he would vehemently deny it.

“Can you be ready to go in half an hour?” he asks as the episode comes to an end.

Clare covers a yawn. “Hm, yes, I think so. Are you driving?”

“I thought we could walk instead,” Roger says, because that buys him an hour more, “the weather’s nice.”

“It is from the other side of the car window, too.”

Roger lets out a snort. “I forgot how lazy you are.”

“We’ll make sure you don’t forget again,” Clare says as she hauls herself up from the couch. Despite that statement, she gets ready with surprising speed and is waiting impatiently by the door not 10 minutes later.

“You’re not having breakfast?” Roger asks, kneeling to tie the laces on his boots.

“I’m not hungry yet,” is her reply. “Wanna borrow a pair of gloves? It’s cold out.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” he says and shouts mum a goodbye before unlocking the front door. Clare follows him outside.

♛ ♛ ♛

“Have you decided where you wanna go for uni?” Roger asks as they’re walking from Starbucks, him breathing in the familiarity and comfort of a small town he was once desperate to escape.

“Not yet,” Clare says, sipping her iced coffee like it’s summer and 25 degrees out rather than December and below freezing. She waves a dismissive hand. “But there’s still loads of time.”

“You should come to London,” Roger says, turning right on Cathedral Lane.

“And leave mum all alone?”

“It wouldn’t be like that,” Roger says, “you would visit all the time.”

“You don’t,” Clare says matter of factly, and Roger feels like the world’s biggest shit. He buries his hands deeper in his pockets, wishing he’d brought gloves, and thinks about something to say.

“Hey,” Clare says, nudging his shoulder, “I get why you needed to go. But I don’t mind it here, really.”

“Thanks,” he says softly. “I should visit more often. Coming back here made me realise that I’ve really missed you guys.”

“Leaving’s easier than being left behind,” Clare says philosophically, “and I bet London beats Truro any day.”

“It’s not the worst place to be,” Roger says. He sidesteps a puddle. “You should come visit me.”

Clare looks at him dubiously. “Do you even have room for me in your flat?”

“Of course! I can kip on the couch, you’ll sleep in my bed.”

“I’ll have to ask mum,” Clare says, but she’s smiling, and Roger feels genuine excitement at the thought of having her visit.  

“It’ll be great,” he promises, opening the door to the tattoo parlour and holding it open for her.

“I envy you,” she says, looking around. “I would get wildflowers all over.”

“You should,” he opines.

“Can’t exactly do that without mum’s approval,” she says. “How can you afford it anyway?”

“Believe it or not, I actually saved.”

“I don’t,” Clare says, “especially not in December.”

“I saved for a _long_ time.” He smiles at the bloke at the counter. “Appointment for Roger Taylor.”

He’s vaguely aware of Clare disappearing off to the other side of the store while they talk. Then the tattoo artist, a pretty redhead, appears, and he promptly forgets all about his little sister.

It’s only when he’s situated himself in the chair with the girl kneeling between his spread legs that Clare decides to grace them with her presence. Chewing obnoxiously loudly on her gum, she distracts him with questions over the buzz of the needle.

“Would you rather never get a paper cut again or never get something stuck in your eye again?” 

“Never get something stuck in my eye again, definitely.”

“Would you rather never sweat again or never feel cold again?”

“I would never feel cold again.”

“Would you rather have someone’s face or Olaf from Frozen tattooed?”

“Neither.”

“You have to choose!”

“I want Olaf tattooed on my left buttock.”

Clare lets out an exasperated sigh. She watches the needle vibrate over his skin for a moment.

“Does it hurt?”

He nods. “A bit. The same as my star sign. The skin’s so thin here.”

“Bit of a waste to have a tattoo on your hip if you don’t have a nice pair of knickers to show it off with.”

Roger lets out a snort in spite of himself. “Thanks for the belated advice.”

♛ ♛ ♛

They all dress up to attend midnight mass down at the cathedral in the evening. Roger protests, as he does every year, but he doesn’t mind, really, especially not with a pleasant buzz from a pint down at the Wig and mum’s mulled wine. He’s beginning to miss the others by now, and sends them all a Snap from the floor of Clare’s room while she gets ready. Brian’s the first to send one back, looking warm and content by the fire and wearing the white pullover, and Roger’s heart aches just a little bit.

“Clare, have you got a boyfriend?” he asks when it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know.

“No,” she says shortly, teeth clenching as she tries to force a stubborn hoop through her ear piercing. Roger looks on, quietly horrified. “Have you?”

Roger thinks he’s supposed to feign offence, or laugh, or at the very least smile. “I have a cardboard cutout of Debbie Harry,” he offers instead, picking at the carpet.

Clare glances at him through the mirror. “You know, I really don’t wanna know.”

Roger huffs out a quiet laugh. He’s not sure what has gotten into him, but he thinks he misses home just a little.

♛ ♛ ♛

Christmas morning dawns, and the whole family wakes unusually early, even Clare who’s a teenager and has every right to catch up on sleep when she can.

They wolf down their breakfast but still have to wait until dad comes to open presents. When he does, they spend an obscenely long time talking and drinking coffee and _then_ , finally, they gather in the living room, and the main event can begin.

From Clare he gets a new pair of drumsticks with his initials engraved which he thinks is unbelievably sweet. In turn, she’s over the moon when she unwraps her CLEAN perfume, and Roger’s glad he expanded his gift budget this Christmas.

Mum’s got him the new Rolling Stones On Air box set and two new shirts. The present from dad is small and flat but holds a promise of a new pair of speakers waiting for him in London. Roger can’t stop grinning.

For mum he’s bought one of the ridiculously expensive cups she collects and a Lisa Ekdahl album which seems pointless when she can’t understand a word she’s singing, but mum’s happy and that’s what counts. Dad’s gift was the least expensive, but he did have to pull some strings to present him with a hard copy of the album so soon after completion.

Presents out of the way, Roger easily falls into conversation with dad. He’s glad that his parents are on amicable enough terms that they can celebrate Christmas together, because with him living in London and dad traveling all the time, Roger has only seen him once since he moved.

When dad asks about university, his response is nowhere near enthusiastic enough to be convincing, and dad attempts sympathy by saying he felt the same when he got his degree. Roger personally doesn’t think “hang in there” is very motivating when he’s only halfway through.

♛ ♛ ♛

To mum’s great disappointment, he decides to go home on Boxing Day instead of the 27th as planned. He argues that the risk of delays is smaller today, which he’s not entirely convinced is true but insists on anyway, and that he has loads of stuff to do before New Year’s Eve. The last bit is true, but really he just misses the others and doesn’t want to waste six hours in the train tomorrow when the other three will be home.

Mum drives him to the station after he’s said his goodbyes to Clare and a promise to get back to her about her London visit. He hugs mum goodbye and promises to be back soon, and then leaves for the train, loaded with leftovers from Christmas dinner and more presents than he arrived with.

On the way home he entertains the idea of dropping out of uni and do something else instead. It would make sense to take the time off to focus on their music, but he knows it won’t justify him with the others still in school. It just seems so pointless, spending money on something he doesn’t care about. And only spending a few hours a day if at all on their music is clearly not getting them anywhere. He wonders how Brian would react if he decided to drop out. Would probably disapprove fiercely, and Roger might just get to experience a reprimand not unlike those he imagines Brian has gotten often enough from his parents.

It’s just past ten when he steps off the Tube and drags his luggage the last 400 meters. The flat is no warmer than it is outside, and he promptly leaves his bags on the floor to turn up the heat everywhere. It’s typical Brian, thinking more about the environment than the fact that Roger will be freezing his balls off tonight.

He opens the fridge in search for milk and has just decided that the leftovers taking up most of it is definitely from a Christmas dinner when a door opens and Brian’s head pokes out.

“You’re home!” Roger says, short of bouncing over to Brian.

“Thought I heard someone,” Brian is saying, but it sort of gets lost between Roger wrapping his arms around him. “Oh God, not so tight!”

“Have you been here long?” Roger asks, reluctantly releasing him.

“Long enough for a shower and two episodes of Eastenders.” The thought of Brian watching TV on his own is absurd. “I was just about to go to bed.”

“Oh,” Roger says. He had sort of hoped they could talk for a bit, if only because he hasn’t spoken to anyone but the train attendant for the past five hours. “Me too.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?” Brian says. “I can’t wait to hear about your Christmas.”

But apparently he can, because then he’s wishing Roger goodnight and closing the door.

“Night,” Roger says, a little too late.

It’s freezing cold in his bedroom, even more so than in the living room. He takes all the blankets and the duvet from John’s bed and piles it on top of his own, but he’s still cold and too restless to sleep even with the many layers weighing him down.

At last he gets out of bed, grabs his pillow and tiptoes to Brian’s room. He carefully pushes down the door handle and pushes the door open enough to poke his head in. It’s so dark in the room he can only just make out the shape of Brian’s body, the streetlight outside the window the only source of light. It’s impossible to determine whether he is asleep or not.

Brian gets up on his elbows.

“The heat’s out,” Roger says and secures his pillow under his arm, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. “Can I sleep in here?”

Brian nods. “Yeah, of course. I turned it off when we left. Might be a while before it kicks in.” He hesitates. “Do you want Freddie’s or...?”

“Or,” he says boldly, even though he feels decidedly nervous. He closes the door behind him, heart beating a little faster, and silently moves towards the bed to creep under the covers. He curls onto his side, body faced towards Brian who is on his back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Roger wants to touch him in a way that doesn’t mean anything—knees knocking together or a friendly hand on his shoulder—but he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

“How’s hols?” he asks instead.

“Tiring.”  
  
“You do seem a bit tense,” Roger offers. He wonders how far apart their bodies are underneath the duvet.

Brian glances at him, then turns his eyes back to the ceiling. Roger lets one foot brush against Brian’s ankle, his knee touch a warm thigh. Brian curls onto his side. A car passes on the street outside, momentarily lighting up the room, and Roger catches a glimpse of his uncertain expression. Roger thinks he’s going to say something but thankfully doesn’t.

He touches his hand to Brian’s arm. “Cuddle me?” he asks hopefully, “it’s freezing in here.”

Brian nods and wraps a loose arm around him. Roger presses closer.

He wonders if Brian and Freddie cuddle up when it’s cold out like he and John do. He has no idea what their bedtime routine is like, which is strange thing not to know when you’ve lived with someone for almost a year. He can’t imagine Brian being really close with anyone, and feels privileged to share space with him like this. Roger knows he’s being pushy, but Brian would’ve kicked him out long ago if it was too much, he’s sure.

“You ever fool around with Freddie?” he asks after a small eternity, looking up at Brian. He can just make out a smudge of lashes that means his eyes are closed, but his breathing is too irregular for him to be asleep.

“No,” Brian says.

“Why not?” Roger says, voice dropping low. The tips of his fingers graze Brian's arm. “Must be hard to be this close to another person and not wonder…”

“Am I to assume you and John have trouble keeping your hands off each other?”

“Don't be crass,” Roger says, put out because Brian doesn’t take the bait.

“Don’t assume we’re attracted to one another just because we both happen to like men.”

Roger holds back a frustrated sigh. He wants to shake Brian—it was a come on, God damn it, not an attempt at offence!

The silence that follows is tense and strained, and Roger doesn’t know why Brian keeps his arms around him when he clearly doesn’t want to. “Sorry,” he says at last, ignoring the voice in his head that argues that it’s definitely not his fault, that Brian is being overly sensitive. Brian’s eyes have closed again, and he doesn’t answer. Roger hesitates. “Brian?”

Brian’s eyes open, and for a long moment, they search his face. Roger’s heart speeds up a little, because this is it, he thinks, this is _it_.

He’s so sure of it that he braces a hand against Brian’s thigh and stretches to reach his lips. Centimetres before their lips press together, Brian mutely shakes his head.

Roger feels his face fall, and rolls onto his back despite the darkness so Brian doesn't see. The arm around his waist falls away.

He's not arrogant enough to think that everyone wants him, but the sting of rejection is still unpleasant to say the least. He can feel Brian's eyes on him, but he stubbornly looks anywhere but. Brian’s walls are sparsely decorated and don’t offer much distraction. The Jimmy Page poster looks spooky in the dark.

He listens to the tick of Brian's alarm clock; counts thirteen long seconds before tentative fingers push under the hem of his t-shirt. The simple touch is surprising and impossibly arousing, and Roger swallows down a gasp.

“Is this okay?” Brian whispers, breath hot on the sensitive skin of his neck.

Roger nods, unable to find his voice. His heart is racing—he doesn’t dare get his hopes up again, but the mere possibility makes his insides twist in fearful anticipation.

Brian’s lips ghost over the stretch of skin behind his ear, and every single hair on the back of his neck stands on end. When the cool, heavy hand slides over his stomach, Roger's breath catches in his chest.

He has no idea what prompted this change of mind in Brian, and he wonders, madly, if he’s dreaming. Then Brian nips at his earlobe, and Roger decides that he isn’t. Probably.

The warm tickle of breath ghosts over his jaw, a feeble warning before Brian trails wet kisses down the side of his neck. Roger focuses on the hand on his stomach and feels a thrill knowing Brian can clearly feel his shuddery breath.

The room temperature still feels just above freezing, and the wet patch of skin Brian’s mouth leaves behind makes him shiver and moan. Brian presses a last kiss to his neck and shifts his hand so it’s splayed over his hip instead, thumb rubbing over skin dangerously close to where his cock is pressing against the thin fabric of his pants. Roger shamelessly rolls his hips. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” he breathes, choking on it when Brian rubs over his straining dick, slow and lazy. “God, please.”

He presses back in to the mattress in an effort to distract himself from the teasing fingers. Brian gets up on one elbow, and they look at each other for a long while. It’s terrifying but good—so good—to have this thing, simple and familiar and then also not at all. Brian’s hand reaches further, and Roger spreads his legs to allow two nimble fingers to massage the stretch of skin behind his balls. He presses his forearm to his mouth to smother a whimper.

Ziggy scratches at the door. Brian draws back.

“No,” Roger hisses, grabbing a fistful of t-shirt, “leave the bloody cat.”

Brian snorts softly and wriggles out of his pyjamas. Roger’s mouth goes dry and silent.

His hands move on their own accord, sliding over warm, naked shoulders to pull him down for a kiss, but Brian dodges his mouth and latches onto his collarbone instead where the collar of his tee has ridden down. Roger sighs and pushes Brian off him to pull off his own t-shirt. Ziggy scratches at the door again and mews.

His cock is straining against his underwear now, and when Brian’s hand skims over his arse, he feels a tiny flicker of fear. He tilts his head stupidly to look at Brian, suddenly in need of some reassurance, but his expression is unreadable in the darkness and then hands push at his briefs and Roger is helpless but to push into the fingers wrapping around his cock.

“Brian, ah—fuck,” he hisses, blindly grasping for something to hold on to, fingers wrapping around Brian’s arm. He feels the muscles work as Brian jerks him off and can’t hold back a moan.

Ziggy lets out another long, mournful mew, and Roger pictures himself taking the bastard cat by the balls and throwing it outside. Brian starts laughing, so quiet at first that Roger only notices because his shoulders are shaking.  
  
“Stop laughing!” he says, rolling onto his side so they’re nose to nose. He pokes him in the ribs. “You’re supposed to focus on me.”

Brian snorts gently, his face flushed with amusement, and Roger has never wanted him more. “You’re as demanding as the cat.”

Roger nudges his hips against Brian’s thigh. Brian takes his hand and guides it to his own straining cock.

“Gotta work for it, Taylor,” Brian says, low and teasing. The use of his last name shocks Roger just a little, but that’s not to say he’s not into it. Brian looks him in the eye and rubs his thumb over the head of Roger’s cock in a way that makes his eyes roll back in his skull.

Quickly recovering himself, Roger greedily rids Brian of his underwear, hand wrapping around his cock and his leg pushing between Brian’s to draw closer. Brian inhales sharply at the touch, and Roger wants nothing more than to watch him get off.

It doesn’t take long—by the time they’ve found a rhythm, Roger is straining with the effort not to come. Brian is sweaty and panting, and the duvet sticks to their skin.

“Come for me, Brian,” Roger pleads, squeezing hard around Brian’s cock, and, unable to hold off any longer, comes with a groan himself. Brian pushes into his hand and buries his face in his shoulder, thrusting one, two times before his release spills over Roger’s hand.

When it’s all over, Brian rolls onto his back and stays quiet. Roger is too content to mind, and stretches comfortably on the rumbled bed. He feels warm and blissed out, if a bit sticky, and is happy to remember that the others won’t be back before lunch, meaning he can sleep in and still have loads of time to get ready.

Brian stretches to open and rummage through his nightstand, and produces a pack of baby wipes a moment later. Roger accepts it, pulls out a few wipes, and quickly cleans himself and the wet spot on the sheet. He thinks he remembers not to leave them on the bed but can’t be sure, because his eyelids keep dropping, and he snuggles deep under the covers and curls himself into a ball of warmth and comfort.

♛ ♛ ♛

When Roger wakes up the next morning, he is fully convinced that it is summer. The sun hitting his closed eyelids seems stronger and warmer than it has in a long time, and as he tries to remember if he checked the forecast last night, a smile forms on his lips. When his eyes open, he’s met with bare trees and weak sunlight filtering through the clouds outside the window. Roger’s not bothered for long—there, next to him, is Brian **;** all rumpled hair and lovely face softened by sleep.

Roger stretches, his joints popping satisfyingly, and rolls onto his side with a content sigh. He tucks the duvet to his chin and just watches Brian for a long while; his soft, lovely mouth, lips slightly parted in the middle, his dark hair and slight stubble, the long, lovely nose. He’s frowning ever so slightly, the beginning of a furrow between his eyebrows, and Roger can’t help himself and reaches out to smooth it with his thumb.

Brian makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Roger quickly retracts his hand. Brian wakes up not long after, looking sleep-grumpy and with his pupils tiny pinpricks amidst warm hazel.

“Good morning,” Roger whispers. His voice is embarrassingly croaky, half the word never leaving his mouth.

Brian closes his eyes again but slides an arm around Roger to pull him closer. Roger gladly curls himself around him, surprised but relieved that Brian’s not being weird about it. His lips connect with the skin of Brian’s neck, and Roger pushes the duvet down and skims his hand down a warm side. Brian sighs and presses closer, half hard cock coming into contact with Roger’s thigh.

“You’re so pretty,” Roger murmurs before he can stop himself, nibbling at Brian’s neck to cover his embarrassment. He means it—Brian looks positively stunning like this, naked and sleep-wam, skin tasting of salt from last night.

Brian rolls over then, playfully pinning him down by the wrists. “You’re not too bad looking either,” he says, and it’s ridiculous how fast Roger hardens against Brian’s thigh.

Brian’s eyes have darkened, and there’s a smile softening his angular features. Heart skipping, Roger wriggles in what little space he has, hips lifting to meet soft skin and hard muscle.

“I’ve never met anyone possessing as little patience as you,” Brian says, mouth lowering to suck on his collarbone. Roger huffs out a laugh. “I should’ve known it would be no different in bed.”

“Been thinking about it, have you?” Roger asks, delicious heat filling his stomach when Brian’s lips pull at a nipple.

Brian doesn’t reply, but lets go of his wrists to continue his way down Roger’s body. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Roger has been thinking about it, and reality exceeds all of his expectations. Revelling in the attention of a gorgeous mouth, Roger lets his hands slip into soft, dark curls. They’re just long enough to get a really good grip, and he delights in the glare he receives when he gives an experimental pull.

Brian pulls away to toss the duvet aside and pauses. Roger pushes himself up on to his elbows and sees that it’s his new tattoo, still red and a bit tender, that has Brian curiously studying his hip.

Brian presses his mouth to it, and Roger involuntarily jerks his hips. "Sorry," he murmurs, "ticklish."

"What is it?" Brian asks, looking at him with such genuine interest that it makes him feel a little dizzy.

"Cornish heath," he says, feeling himself flush.

Brian presses a kiss to his hipbone, trying in vain to hide a smile. "Sap."

"Yeah, well."

He struggles into an upright position, and Brian straightens up as well, sitting on his knees with Roger's legs on either side of him.

"How long have you had it?” Brian asks, fingers tracing the inside of his forearm. The touch feels oddly arousing.

Roger closes his eyes. “Three days.”

“No vintage car this time either?”

Roger lets out a soft snort, opening his eyes again. "Probably wouldn't have you in bed if that was the case."

"You never know," Brian says, and Roger really, really wants to kiss him.

"I'd like a dragon at some point, I think,” he says to distract himself, “that would be so cool. But I want to get something for my mum first. I already have tattoos for dad and Clare, can't leave her out."

"Which one is for your dad?" Brian asks, arranging himself so he is sitting cross-legged instead, oblivious perhaps to the fact that they are both naked and Roger is unfairly aroused from their short foreplay still.

"The drum set," he says, motioning towards his ankle like Brian hasn't seen it on a nearly daily basis for the past two years, "it's a replica of the set he got me when I was 12. So even though I don't really see him anymore, it's still a nice reminder, and of course music’s pretty important to me, so.”

"For a drunk tattoo it holds an awful lot of meaning,” Brian smiles.

“I _had_ thought about it for a long time,” Roger says. He wonders if it’s okay to kiss Brian now, but in the end decides not to risk it. He glances between their naked bodies. “Did you mean to, er, finish?”

Brian laughs, loud and genuine. He reaches for the box of baby wipes. “Lie down.”

Roger does, sprawling out on the sheets in a way he hopes looks effortlessly alluring. Brian looks him up and down, and Roger feels a thrill knowing he’s allowed to look, too, and his eyes drag over the planes and angles of his body—there’s the scar crossing his stomach, jarring the flawless skin, and further down his long, hardening cock resting against one pale thigh.

Brian dips his head down to mouth at his neck, working his way down Roger’s chest again. Roger inhales deeply through his nose and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Brian nips at his navel, and the head of Roger’s cock bumps against his neck, leaving behind a smear of pre-cum.

“Brian,” he says, sharp and low, and Brian’s eyes are large and innocent when he looks up, so much that Roger feels he could come right then and there. He slides his hands into Brian’s hair just as a last kiss is pressed to his stomach and nimble fingers wrap around his cock.

It’s hot and wet and pure bliss when Brian slides his mouth down his length, and Roger swears and pulls at his hair. Brian lets out a moan, the vibrations around his cock having Roger helplessly bucking into it.

“God, Brian,” he whispers, rubbing a thumb along Brian’s cheekbone. Brian sucks at the swollen head of his cock, and Roger lets his eyes fall closed, revelling in the luxury of a talented mouth around him first thing in the morning.

It stretches on for a long, wonderful time so that when he’s about to come, his whole being is thrumming with pleasure and Brian’s jaw must be aching for sure. Brian keeps still as he spills his load into his mouth, and as he falls back into the pillows, Roger is only dimly aware of Brian reaching for a baby wipe before he’s spitting into it and wiping his mouth.

Roger shifts a bit so he can look at Brian without straining his neck. “Should I be offended?”

Brian chucks the balled up wipe in the waste bin. “I never do, if that makes you feel better.”

“Why not?” Roger asks, idly stretching. His joints click.

Brian gives him an exasperated look. “Would _you_ do it?”

Roger thinks about it. Initially, the thought doesn't much appeal to him, but spite and a lovely, rumpled Brian with his cock out makes it seem less gross. He's received his fair share of blowjobs and never had anyone complain; it can't be that bad.

Instead of answering, he sits up and gently pushes at Brian’s chest until he’s lying on his back. With an easy smile to Brian’s still wary expression, he kneels between his bent knees and wraps a hand around his cock. This is the easy part—he's had eight years of practice, after all—and after a few experimental pulls, Brian indeed looks like he's pretty into it, so Roger doesn't feel too nervous moving on. Keeping his fist around the base to help him guide it to his mouth, he lowers himself, trying not to be intimidated by the size of it, half wondering how on earth he’s going to fit the whole thing in his mouth.

“You don't have to,” Brian whispers, propping himself up on his elbows to watch.

“I want to,” Roger replies, and closes his mouth around the plump head.

It’s a rather rewarding experience, it turns out—Brian’s a lot more vocal than he was last night, and even though he keeps his hips still, Roger can tell he wants to move. The smell of him is heady and addictive, and Roger sucks down his cock as far back as he can take him.

The position is not the most comfortable, and it doesn’t take long before his jaw starts to ache. He thinks about what usually does it for him, experimentally twisting his hand at the same time as he swirls his tongue around the head.

“Fuck,” Brian breathes, and Roger loves it when he swears. He glances up, and his heart stutters. Brian is flushed and rumpled and absolutely stunning, and when their eyes meet, Roger stills his movements, suddenly uncertain. Brian's cock is heavy on his tongue, and saliva fills his mouth.

He breaks off eye contact when it becomes too much and resumes his task with lowered eyelids, trying in vain to ignore the squirmy thing in his stomach.

Brian tenses up not a minute later, and Roger braces himself but is still not prepared for the warm, bitter taste of Brian on his tongue, and ends up coughing as he swallows.

“Ugh,” he says, wiping his mouth. “That was foul.”

Brian laughs quietly, and Roger drags himself up to get his reward in form of a kiss. Brian turns his head, and Roger ends up kissing his cheek instead.

"You are not very affectionate after sex," he decides, climbing on top of Brian, and puts his face as close to Brian's as he dares.

"We didn't have sex," Brian points out, and Roger has to refrain from rolling his eyes. "And I just don't kiss on the mouth, that's all."

"Why?" Roger demands, leaning close enough for their noses to bump. It drives him crazy to be denied something so easily within reach, and he briefly wonders if Brian teases him on purpose.

"Kissing makes me become attached, and I don't want that," he admits, clearly with some difficulty.

"And has it made a difference?" he asks, lips almost brushing over Brian's lovely mouth.

Brian visibly swallows. "I don't know," he says, his breath, warm and sweet, like a caress against Roger’s face. He pauses, looks away. "I don't do casual very well."

"Then why do you do it?" Roger asks, shifting back and lowering himself onto Brian's body, arms folded across Brian's chest, chin resting on them.

Brian exhales. "Lots of reasons. I don't have time for a relationship, for one. And then there's the whole deal with my parents to take into account, too."

"What about them?" Roger asks, a bit more sharply than intended. The mention of Brian's parents always has him feeling a bit on the edge.

"Well, nothing really, they just... they really wish to have grandchildren."

"So what? It is possible to adopt," he says, aiming for casual, but then adds, "you're still young."

"I know," Brian says, but he doesn't sound too sure. He falls silent, absent-mindedly stroking Roger's skin.

"Then what is the problem?" Roger asks carefully.

"It's not that they don't support me, you know," Brian says, a note of defensiveness in his voice, and Roger does his best to hide his exasperation. "But I'm their only child, and I owe them—"

"You don't owe them anything, Brian," Roger says, trying hard to keep his rising anger in check, but finding it increasingly hard to.

"They are my parents, of course I do. I owe them everything."

"That's not how families are supposed to work," he says, frustrated that Brian can’t seem to understand this. He knows Brian loves them very much, but he wishes he could realise how they continue to manipulate him.

"What?" Brian sits up abruptly, forcing Roger to sit up as well, and he realises he must have spoken his thoughts out loud. When he reaches for his shirt, Roger hastens to correct his mistake.

"That's not what I meant," he says, helplessly watching as Brian begins to cover up, "I don't think that they do it intentionally, but as you said yourself, you are their only child and you are obviously trying to please them, and while there is nothing wrong with that, you have to admit that it makes it the more easier to have things their way."

"I would very much like you to leave now," Brian says quietly, face arranged into a polite, almost indifferent mask.

"Brian, come on, I just mean—"

"You don't get it!" he explodes, "and that's fair enough! You don't have to, but don't come here and try to psychoanalyse me! My parents almost lost their son! All they are trying to do is to make sure I get the best life possible."

"What does that matter if what they think is best for you doesn't align with what really makes you happy? I mean, can't you see it? They can't even accept you for who you are, telling you you ought to find a woman and have kids because _they_ want grandchildren even if it makes _you_ miserable!"

"I'm glad you feel comfortable enough with your own sexuality to fool around with friends whenever it strikes your fancy, but you haven't ever experienced prejudice because of your sexuality, so don’t try to tell me what to do! Your life is _so_ easy, you don’t ha—”

“My life’s easy because I _enjoy_ myself instead of holding myself to impossible high standards,” Roger interrupts.

“Maybe you should raise your standards,” Brian says, “hold yourself accountable for once.”

The anger seeps out of Roger just like that. “Right.” 

He doesn’t know why he bothers. He reaches for a t-shirt on the floor, only belatedly realising it’s Brian’s, and defiantly pulls it over his head anyway. His briefs are at the foot of the bed, and it takes him long seconds to locate them, the silence that stretches filled with tension. 

Not looking at Brian, Roger hops out of bed and leaves, the door slamming behind him. 


End file.
